Monster
by IndigoUmbrella
Summary: "Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters?" - Laini Taylor.
1. Chapter 1

My heart was rattling so loudly in my chest that I could hear it pounding in my ears. It was all I could hear over the high pitched ringing that didn't seem to want to fade away. I had my back pressed against the remains of a crumbling brick wall. A grenade had taken most of it off and left behind a short rain of debris and ash. My gun was across my lap. I could feel the heaviness of the machine against me. The weight of my armor and ammunition across my chest constricted my already ragged breathing. I knew I was never going to be able to pull the trigger. I had been training for this moment for years, and I couldn't do it. I froze.

So I sat there against the wall with the ringing in my ears and the knowledge that I was going to die. We were all going to die. I probably could have saved them. I could have stopped that bomb if I had just been brave enough to pull the trigger when I had the chance. If I hadn't hidden like a coward behind a wall, the others might have had a chance. I had to be brave again. I couldn't hear them, but I knew they were still there.

I stood up and winced. My boots had been tied too tightly that morning. My legs were shaking with exhaustion and fear. I cautiously peeked over the wall just in time to spot a man marching around the corner. At first, I thought he was a civilian until his eyes shot to mine and he lifted his gun in my direction. My breath caught in my throat. It was too late for me to dive back behind the wall. I could hardly breathe through the dust, heat, and tight armor as it was. But the sight of him stopped my lungs completely. My finger stroked the metal trigger of my rifle, but I couldn't bring myself to end his life.

He fired first, and I felt pain explode over my left shoulder; sharp and violent. I fell backward, tripping over crumbled cement and bricks until I was flat on my back, staring up at the smoke-filled sky. It was supposed to be an easy mission. Why did it fall apart? I wasn't even meant to be there. I went through all of the training, of course, but I was just supposed to help and support. I wasn't supposed to die that way. I thought of my mother; her disappointment, her anger. How sad she would be when she got the news.

Then a loud beeping sound broke through the ringing in my ears. Instead of the smoke-filled sky, I saw the ceiling of my bedroom, blackened with shadows from the twisted trees in the backyard. I took a deep breath and rubbed the damaged skin on my shoulder, where the bullet had struck me and left behind a thick layer of scar tissue that stretched over my skin like violent pink spiderwebs.

My bones still ached, and I could still recall that sharp blast of pain. I remembered feeling like my whole shoulder had been torn off. I remembered believing I was going to die, but my alarm clock reminded me that I was still breathing. I'd survived. And the clock got louder and more persistent with every passing second. So I reached over and slammed the palm of my hand against the large button on the top. The beeping halted, and the silence filled my ears with that same high pitched ringing that never seemed to go away.

Outside, the wind blew and made the old windows creak and whistle like howling ghosts, reminding me that my hearing was just fine, and the ringing was from the silence. Not because I'd stood too close to an explosion. I sat up and moved the covers off of my bare legs. I pressed my feet against the rug on the floor and felt a chill in the air prickle against my skin to further remind me that I was alive and years had passed since that day I'd accepted my death. Summer was approaching, but I was still cold. I was always cold.

The memories were getting worse. Not worse, really. Just back to the way they'd been before. I was told when I was sent home that it would take a long time to recover, but my therapist always made recovery out to be such an easy thing to obtain. She made it seem like I'd be normal again within a year. I'd be the same optimistic, loving, bubbly girl I'd been before I shipped out.

But it had been almost six years, and the nightmares always came back. They had started to get better for a time. I was capable of being alone with my thoughts and my silence without losing control. I could sleep through the night again, but then HYDRA resurfaced. No, they were always there, I learned. That was part of the problem. I was just finally forced to see where they'd always been. In the faces of the people I'd once considered allies; individuals who had been acquaintances and on one rare occasion, a lover.

Even though I couldn't recover, I could persevere. My therapist always said that perseverance was one step closer to recovery. I was good at perseverance, even if I couldn't get the hang of recovery. So I pushed the memory away into the dark corners of my mind and crept across the hall to the bathroom. I took a hot shower as I tried to wash the chill from my bones and relieve the ache in my shoulder. I ran my fingers over the scars as I stood beneath the rainfall, getting familiar with each ridge and web again.

They said I was lucky to have been hit in the shoulder. The bullet had torn through some muscle, but missed major arteries and skimmed my bones. If I had been hit anywhere else, I would have died or been severely injured. I hated when they told me that. My chest had been armored at the time. There was a helmet on my head. He could just have easily shot me in the chest and spared me the years of pain and suffering. Or shot me in the face to just be done with me for good. They always said he probably missed, but I didn't believe that to be true. The shooter was smart. He knew I was wearing armor. He was aware that a shot to the chest wouldn't have done anything but knock the wind out of me and provide me with the motive to fire back. He shot me in the shoulder, not to kill me, but to take me out of the game.

When I got home, I was recommended to SHIELD by my former commanding officer. I got the job and moved to Washington DC. They let me carry a gun even though I was too afraid to use it. They stuck me at a desk and claimed I was too emotionally unstable for field work. I didn't complain. I agreed that it might be the best place for me. So I sat behind a desk every day and pretended I couldn't feel the extra weight I wore on my hip. I knew I wouldn't be able to pull the trigger if the time came. And they did too.

When HYDRA was revealed within SHIELD, it turned out to be a test of that fear. Co-workers that I had known from my early days turned on one another. Friends became enemies. The office erupted into complete chaos. I had to pull my gun out. I felt it in my hands, heavy with more than just the weight of metal and machinery. I felt the trigger beneath my finger, and I couldn't do it. I'd shot paper. I'd shot at targets. I regularly practiced just so I never lost the skill. I liked shooting at targets. I just couldn't bring myself to kill another human being. Even when my life was in danger.

You know that saying that you never bring a knife to a gunfight? Well, I was the one who brought the knife. It was a cute thing too. It was a joke gift from my sister in New York. It was a switchblade with a pink handle that she'd given a custom bedazzling. Clara said it was a decent representation of me since I'd once been the little sister who wore pretty dresses and was the least likely to run away and join the military just after prom.

My mother always used to say I had strong maternal instincts. She said I only joined the army to prove that I could be maternal, feminine, and tough at the same time. I was just supposed to be a medic. I was just meant to help people. The gun, knives, and training were just precautions. I'd never been able to use them against another person.

So when all hell broke loose with HYDRA, and I realized that I still couldn't pull the trigger and take another life, I pulled that pink sparkly switchblade from my pocket and used it to defend myself with. They laughed at me. I was the girl who brought a pink bedazzled knife to a gun fight. But I survived, and that had to mean something.

The sun was starting to rise when I finally made my way down to the kitchen on the main floor. I decided to forego breakfast and packed my coffee in a shiny silver mug with the SHIELD logo on the side. I snapped the lid on tight and stuck a packet of crackers between my lips to eat on the ride. My pink bedazzled switchblade was sitting on the counter where I'd left it. It was a gag gift from my sister and the butt of many jokes, but it was my weapon of choice. It could kill, but it could also protect without having to kill. So I snatched it off of the counter and slid it into the pocket of my navy blue blazer.

* * *

I hope you guys like this. I hope to get updates out regularly. I'm really excited for some Bucky-ness. Also, this story is like a burnt crispy marshmallow. Soft and gooey in the center. But a bit charred on the edges. I hope you read it and I hope that you like it. :D


	2. Chapter 2

Since the ordeal with HYDRA, SHIELD was in shambles. Ninety percent of the workforce had been arrested, killed in action, or simply disappeared into the wind. Those of us who were left behind were interviewed, followed, and just plain harassed. The majority of us had been labeled HYDRA by association, even when there was no evidence to back that accusation. Aside from our unknowingly doing HYDRA's dirty work for years. And the ones who managed to get free from the government take-down went on to work for various other places.

I managed to make it through the interview and scrutiny for the simple fact that I was a level one agent, fought against HYDRA with a pink glittery knife, and had a history with Colonel Talbot of US Special Forces. I had been cleared quickly, though I wasn't sure that they weren't still watching me anyway.

A new job was going to be harder for me to find. Tony Stark offered me a job almost immediately, and I had considered it a great deal. I just didn't want to leave my home in DC. I didn't want to be closer to my sister so that she could see all the things I tried to hide from my family, and I couldn't be positive that working for Stark would be any better than working for SHIELD. Especially since he seemed to have a new threat against his life every day. I still had a mortgage to pay, though and a car, and despite the Triskelion being swarmed with military personnel and construction crews, I decided to go back for what was left of my stuff anyway.

The front courtyard was empty when I walked through it. It almost felt like a ghost town compared to how I remembered it. In the old days, the place would have been crawling with agents. Sunshine used to sparkle through the glass ceiling and make the whole place come alive with light and activity. Now it was devoid of life except for me, some dying plants, and whatever birds had snuck through the shattered ceiling to nest in empty spaces. I headed into the main lobby and made for the bank of elevators with blinking lights. The other tower had been closed off due to most of it having been damaged when a helicarrier went down. My tower was still mostly intact, thankfully.

"Where do you think you're going?" a uniformed soldier said as he stepped in front of me. He held his rifle against his chest and stretched his spine to appear taller and more intimidating. I was neither tall nor intimidating, but I had outranked him once, and I didn't take kindly to intimidation techniques.

"To get my stuff," I replied.

"What stuff? What's left? Important documents? How'd you get cleared?"

I pulled my bag up higher on my shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. He was taller than me by nearly half a foot, and I was starting to get irritated by his display. I had already waited long enough to get my belongings, and I had nothing to hide. I may have done a lot of HYDRA's work, but I didn't do it intentionally.

"I'm Agent Johanna Hayes. I'm also former Special Forces and your superior. I've been cleared by Colonel Talbot, and I came here to pick up my personal belongings. If that's a problem for you, please give the Colonel a call. I've already told him I'd be coming by today, and I'm sure he'd love to be bothered by the news of me collecting family photos."

He gave me a huff but turned to his companion anyway. The other soldier was lounging lazily at the security desk. I could barely see most of his body except for his feet crossed over the place I used to check in each morning. The man gave a shrug and didn't bother to reopen his eyes. Work was clearly very dull these days.

"Talbot cleared her. Let her go. He's too busy to care," he said. The other soldier turned back to me and stepped away.

"We'll be watching you—Agent," he said, using my title like a dirty word I should be ashamed of. I held her head high as I stepped passed him and headed to the elevators.

Even though I had a desk job and did nothing but paperwork all day long, my office was one of the few that was hit the hardest. A great deal of our paperwork had been compromised, falsified, rendered useless, or just had HYDRA written all over it. I was almost ashamed of myself for never noticing the signs, and I wondered how many times I'd come across something that could have given me a clue. Or if the idea of HYDRA being in SHIELD was just so absurd that I'd blocked it from my mind.

My level was even quieter than the courtyard. My desk was littered with papers and the remains of the fight that had taken place there just weeks before. Luckily the bodies had been removed, but when I told my mother I was going back for my stuff, she strictly forbade me. She was afraid that if I saw the battleground, it would send me back a couple of years regarding therapy. But besides the melancholy feeling I got about no longer having a job, I felt just fine.

I had to do a dance around the rubble and mess to get to my chair at the desk closest to the window. Then I plopped down on my seat and looked out over the entrance courtyard and the mangled SHIELD statue. I could see the partially demolished second building from my place. I watched some birds take flight from a broken section before taking another sip of my coffee and setting the mug on my desk.

Then I began to empty my drawers. I tossed my files and paperwork into the trash bin at my side even though they were likely better off on the floor. I dug through my junk and began removing what I needed or things that were mine. Like office supplies and personal items from home.

"Hey," another voice said sharply from the other side of the office. Another soldier stood in the walkway, holding onto his gun as if he might have to use it on me. "Do you have clearance to be here?"

"I've been cleared by Colonel Talbot. I don't know why I keep having to tell you guys that. You don't seem very organized," I informed him.

"You SHIELD?" he asked. I sighed heavily. Yes, I was SHIELD, but I was tired of the way people reacted when I said I was. I still believed there was a difference between SHIELD and HYDRA and most people didn't agree.

"Special Forces," I told him. He gave me a once-over as if coming to the conclusion that I didn't look Special Forces at all. I was used to that too.

"You're not taking any data, are you? We're not supposed to touch the files."

"I'm leaving all the paperwork." I lifted my inbox and dumped it onto the floor just to show him it was useless to me now. "But I am taking my things." I stuffed a few supplies into my bag, and he approached the desk.

"We're not supposed to take anything."

"I'm taking my things," I repeated. "Unless you want to keep this picture of my parents on their wedding day, and this macaroni necklace a kid from the VA made for me. It matches your eyes." I held the macaroni chain out to him, but he just continued staring down at me. So I shoved it into my bag and reached for my laptop. He jolted, and his hand went to the butt of his rifle.

"You can't take that," he insisted. I sighed and lifted the screen.

"It's my personal computer," I explained. "No access to SHIELD or HYDRA databanks. I had to access them from my work computer." I put my hand on the desk by the mouse. "My login ID doesn't work anymore, remember? But this computer is mine. My mother paid for it. And I need it to apply for new jobs." I closed the laptop screen and slid it into my bag. "But you can go ahead and run that by Talbot if it makes you feel any better." He shifted on his feet.

"Talbot says not to bother him, but he also says not to trust anyone." I shrugged and reached for the hot pink stapler I'd gotten to match my mousepad. And my knife.

"Talbot trusts me."

"Why?"

"Because I saved his life." He watched me gather more of my supplies before another soldier cruised through into hallway.

"She's been cleared," the woman said. "Just got off the phone with Talbot. He told me to let her take what she wants. As long as it's not documents or files." The guy nodded and turned back to me.

"You're clear," he told me.

"I tried to tell you," I retorted.

He walked off to join his companion on their rounds. I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk when I felt my phone vibrate in my blazer pocket. I pulled it out and looked down at the clear screen. It was a text from an unknown number.

"Agent Hayes, this is Agent Hill. I have a mission for you," the text read. I looked up to see if the soldiers were still watching me, but they were in a discussion about a TV show and no longer seemed to care about me.

I had seen Agent Maria Hill several times during my employment with SHIELD, but I had never met her. The woman always appeared cold and indifferent and stuck by Director Fury like a permanent second limb. After Fury's assassination, I hadn't seen Hill at all. The last I heard of her was when SHIELD had named her an enemy for siding with Captain Rogers. I knew that whatever reason she had for contacting me now must be important. As far as I knew, Hill had been cleared and was going to work for Stark.

"I'm listening," I texted back. Hill's response came just seconds later.

"Meet me in the basement in interrogation room four. Take the stairs, don't use your badge."

"I'll be right down."

The phone went silent again, and I stood and swept a loose strand of light brown hair from my face. I didn't know what Hill could want from me, but she knew I was in the building, and she still referred to me as an agent even though I no longer had a job. I lifted my bag that was now heavy with supplies and personal items and swung it back over my aching shoulder. I felt for the knife in my pocket and walked past the soldiers.

"Good luck on your job search," the man said.

I gave him a quick nod before heading toward the elevator bank. Then I was alone in the small room, and I looked around to make sure the soldiers weren't watching me. Instead of pressing the button to get on the immobile elevator car, I opened the door to the stairwell and pulled it closed before it could slam shut.

I never had a reason to go to the interrogation rooms before. I sat at a desk all day and didn't do any field work. There was never a reason for me to interrogate anyone. Though I did know where they were because I was forced to tour the building more than once. Although, the interrogation rooms were usually set to deny my access when I swiped my badge. Instead, I found a man waiting for me at the door when I left the stairwell.

I recognized him from the battle against HYDRA. He had stolen military equipment and aided Rogers and his friends in taking down the helicarriers that were set to commit genocide. His name was Sam Wilson, and apparently, he was now best buddies with Captain America and called himself the "Falcon."

"Agent Hayes," he said when I approached. I nodded to him.

"Wilson," I replied.

He already had the door open while he waited for me, so he stood back and held it open for me to enter. Then I followed him down the windowless corridor until we reached the door marked "four" in clean, sharp letters. He gave the door a quick tap with his knuckles before turning the handle and pushing it open. Then I nearly stumbled over my own feet when I saw the group waiting for me inside.

Agent Hill stood at the end of the single table, Agent Romanoff sat in a chair beside her, and Captain Rogers sat just next to her. They were all facing the door, and that left me with one chair with its back to the door.

"Have a seat," Hill instructed when I entered the room. Wilson closed the door, and I took the chair across from Rogers. I wondered if anyone else who had been cleared was getting interrogated by this group too, or if I was just special.

"What's going on?" I asked as I sat my bag down beside the leg of the aluminum table.

"I have a few questions for you."

"Okay, I've already been questioned. Was there something wrong?"

"No, I'm just curious about how you got cleared."

"I got cleared because I'm clean. I'm a level one. I never did anything but file paperwork. They determined I was harmless, and Colonel Talbot gave me a recommendation."

"Are you working for Talbot now?"

"I'm not working for anyone. I'm unemployed."

"Stark didn't offer you a job?"

"He did. I didn't accept it."

"Why not?" I looked up at her and narrowed my eyes in disbelief. The questions were starting to get personal, and I didn't like that.

"I'm sorry, Agent Hill. But last I checked, I didn't work for you. If this is another kind of examination then just be straight with me. Talbot has already cleared me. I'm not HYDRA. My reason for not accepting Stark's job offer is my personal business."

"This isn't an interrogation. It's an interview," Rogers said from across the table.

I looked up to meet his clear blue eyes. He was sitting his civilian clothes but seemed tense and ready to jump into action at the first sign of trouble. I guessed that he was probably always like that. But even though he appeared so alert, he also seemed exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, bruises and healing cuts on his face, and his usually styled blond hair was ruffled as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Interview for what?" I questioned. Then Hill slapped a folder down on the metal table before me. The words on the cover were in Russian, and somehow I didn't think I was going to like what I found inside. "I don't speak Russian," I informed them.

"I included translations. Open it," Hill instructed.

I cautiously opened the file and looked down at the first page. A large photo had been attached to the inside of the cover with a paperclip. It showed the image of a man's face. His eyes were closed, and the photo appeared distorted and blue. Almost frosted. A smaller picture was attached to the larger one. It was an old print of a man in a World War Two military uniform. I ran my fingers over the glossy old print and removed it from the paper clip.

"Sergeant James Barnes?" I said, reading the name on the translation.

"Bucky," Rogers informed me. "His name is James Buchanan Barnes. I've always called him Bucky."

"He's also known as the Winter Soldier," Romanoff told me from the other side of Rogers. I cut my eyes to the redhead and saw the same exhausted expression mirrored on her face. I knew she was facing legal trouble for dumping HYDRA files onto the internet, but call me crazy, I trusted them. They had saved my life more than once, even if they hadn't done so knowingly.

"The Winter Soldier?" I repeated out loud. "I thought that was just a myth. Just a ghost story SHIELD used whenever we didn't have enough information on something."

"You've heard that name?" I shrugged.

"Office gossip. You'd be surprised what people say at the water cooler."

"The Winter Soldier is a person, and if you accept this job, he's also going to pay your bills." My eyes widened in surprise.

"You want me to find him?"

"No," Rogers said as I turned back to him. "He's going to be impossible to find. And he's—not himself. He doesn't know who he is. Your mission won't be to find him because you won't succeed. Your mission will be to help me bring him out of the shadows. Help me help him."

I never thought I would see a day where the famous Captain America would need my help for anything. Not when he had Romanoff, Wilson, and Hill at his side. Not with his gang of super buddies. I was good at my job, but I didn't have any particular talents. At least not any I wanted to show off. I wasn't an assassin, and Tony never even let me touch his suits. I couldn't even pull a trigger. I was just a woman who sat behind a desk and filed reports. My only claim to fame was that I carried a sparkly knife and had an association with Tony Stark.

"James Barnes has undergone decades of brainwashing on part of HYDRA and the KGB," Romanoff explained as she stretched her arms across the table and cracked her knuckles. She wasn't being very professional about the job, and so I didn't know what to think. "He was born in 1917 in Brooklyn, New York. His father was a soldier. He and Rogers were friends growing up. He was captured by HYDRA while on active duty during in 1944. Rogers managed to rescue Barnes from a HYDRA facility, and he joined and co-founded the Howling Commandos. He was believed to be the only Commando to have died in service.

"Until he resurfaced as the Winter Soldier. HYDRA's toy soldier. He's been linked to at least fifty assassinations and terrorist attacks in the past few decades alone. Including the murder of Howard Stark, JFK, and the recent attacks in DC. He's undergone similar experimentation as Steve, only he's been manipulated by HYDRA since the beginning. He has a cybernetic arm. He's extremely dangerous. Probably confused on top of that. But he saved Rogers' life and now that HYDRA has been dismantled he's gone AWOL.

"No one knows where he is or how to find him. But we do know that he's aware of his connection to Steve, and we think it's possible, and very likely, that he's going to come back to gather more information on his past. We've been listening to chatter, but we're not picking anything up. Which means he's damn good at hiding. We need to bring him out of the shadows."

"So what does this have to do with me?" I asked her.

"We need to create a friendly, safe, and threat-free environment for Barnes to use as a gateway to Rogers. Barnes is a soldier and an assassin. He's like a ghost, and we think he's going to watch Rogers for a while before he makes contact. If he does at all. But he's not going to show himself to Steve if he's surrounded by government officials. He's going to come to Steve when he's most relaxed and isn't as threatening as Captain America. But we can't have Steve do this on his own, and chances are Barnes already knows Steve is being watched at home. So we figure we'd set up a false environment. A place Steve would visit regularly. A place where there won't be any eyes watching."

"I still don't understand what this has to do with me," I said.

"You're one of the few remaining agents that isn't dead, HYDRA, or in custody. Talbot doesn't view you as a threat; therefore, there's minimal surveillance on you at present. We need to give Steve a reason to visit our designated safe place regularly. It has to be private, dark, and free from prying eyes. We figure a girlfriend is a perfect cover. We need someone who has minimal surveillance and needs to appear gentle and non-threatening. But we also want someone we can trust. Someone who has a basic understanding of medical procedures in case something goes wrong, but also someone who can fight if it comes down to it."

"Against a super-soldier with a robotic arm?" I asked with a tired laugh. I ran my hands over my face. "I don't think I'm what you're looking for. I can't—I can't even shoot a gun." I whispered the last part even though they all heard me.

"We don't want you to have any weapons while undercover. Aside from the cute knife." I put my head in my hands and rubbed the ache from my eyes. "Chances are Barnes isn't going to show up if Steve isn't there," Romanoff continued. "But he isn't going to show himself at Steve's apartment because he knows he's being watched there. He's going to follow Steve to a safe place, and Steve, no offense, never goes anywhere. A girlfriend is just the perfect decoy to establish contact. It's a reason for him to frequently spend a night away from home. Someplace that seems threat free and welcoming. Where the government won't be watching. He needs to be able to get in and out without being noticed."

I opened my eyes and picked up the smaller photo again. I examined the face and reattached it to the paperclip. Barnes seemed like a decent sort of guy in the smaller picture, and from what I remembered from Cap's exhibit at the Smithsonian. But I hadn't been paying much attention then. I never thought it would apply to me. I only went because my sister Clara wanted to see it when she came to visit.

"Why me?" I asked then. "Why not another cleared agent?"

"Because Barnes won't see you as a threat and Talbot isn't keeping tabs on you. At least not to the extent as the rest of us. He trusts you. And his opinion, unfortunately, means something to us."

"I was a Combat Medic, Agent Romanoff. I may have frozen that one time, but that doesn't mean I've never killed anyone. I had—other skills. I wouldn't have been recruited otherwise."

"That's why you're here and not someone else. You have the skills and training needed to do the job. And even though you're ex-Special Forces, you have the face of a fairy princess." I knew Romanoff didn't mean to insult me, but I had been fighting the fairy princess thing since I joined the military and they started calling me "Tinkerbell." It took me years to get them to drop the nickname.

"Barnes won't view you as a threat," Romanoff continued as she fought off a yawn. "As long as he doesn't feel threatened by you and your actions don't get suspicious, your life shouldn't be in any real danger. But just in case, you know how to get Barnes down without much assistance. Even if you do require it, Steve will be there to help you out, and Stark agreed to help too."

"Stark is part of this?" I asked.

"Your sister convinced him." I nodded slowly. Of course she did.

"So the plan is that we're going to set you up with a false identity. Chances are Barnes won't have access to any of your background information, and he won't be watching you before Steve leads him to you. So you're safe for at least a week. We'll help you establish a false life and then Steve will start coming around. We want you to act like a couple. It doesn't have to be perfect. Barnes might view you as a couple with problems. Talbot might see you as a couple just starting out. You'll sleep in the same bed, share PDA at the front door and in front of windows. Make it look like Steve is comfortable enough in your presence that he can kick off his shoes and fall asleep in front of the TV. That way Barnes will think it's safe to approach him there. That way you can be there to alert Stark or us if the situation goes sour."

"And if I have to face him alone?" I asked.

"Lie. Build your story. Make him think he can trust you."

"And if he gets violent?"

"I'll show you how to take him down."

"Don't—take him down. Don't kill him," Rogers said as he shot a glare in Romanoff's direction. I finally turned back to him. "Please?" he added. I nodded slowly. They had more faith in me than I had in myself. I didn't think I could take someone like Captain America in a fight. Even with a gun. I definitely didn't think I could take a guy with Cap's strength, a cybernetic arm, and violent tendencies.

"What if he tries to kill me first?" I asked.

"He won't."

"We'll set up precautions anyway," Romanoff told me. "Stark sent us this prototype." She slipped a bracelet off of her wrist and placed it in the center of the metal table. It was a simple beaded bracelet, but she lifted one of the beads and fingered the raised design. "It's a panic button," she told me. "It's still a prototype, so it's not perfect. But Stark offered to let us take it to help you with the mission. It's virtually undetectable, and it can distinguish between an accidental alert and a real one. If you begin to believe your life is in immediate danger, all you have to do is press the button, and Iron Patriot or one of us will be at your door in less than five minutes. Whoever's closest."

"Iron Patriot?"

"War Machine. That's what they're calling him now."

"That's dumb."

"That's what I said."

I reached across the table for the bracelet and located the single bead with the raised design. Upon further inspection, I could see it was obviously a button. Not Stark's best since it looked like something a teenager would buy at a music festival and not his usual sleek designer look, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

"I'll have to send Stark my thanks," I said slowly. Romanoff shrugged a shoulder. I turned to Captain Rogers again. "So what are your thoughts about this plan?" He had his hand under his chin as if he just wanted to sleep more than anything else.

"I think it's one of Romanoff's ridiculous ploys to set me up on a date," he told me. "And it could be dangerous. But if it helps us get to him before anyone else, then I think it's worth trying. I have a lot of faith that Bucky is still in there somewhere. I don't want anything to get in the way of him trying to reach out to me."

"How long are we going to do this for?"

"As long as needed, or at least until you decide to call it off," Romanoff told me.

I kept my eyes on Rogers. He was the one I trusted the most. Not just because he was my superior but because the mission was personal to him. The rest of them were only there because of him and their desperation to get their hands on Barnes. But if Rogers wanted me to do it, I would.

"We'll set you up with a job as part of your false identity. Rogers will make up the difference between your new job and your previous income," she continued.

"Do you want me to help you, Captain?" I asked him. He waited a moment to answer as he looked me over. He seemed to understand that I was asking him, not personally, but as a Corporal to a Captain.

"I can't ask you to help me. It could be dangerous," he said.

"That's not what I'm asking. Do you want my help?" He took a deep breath and gave a quick, short nod. I dropped my head and looked down at the bracelet. Then I slipped it onto my wrist. "I don't do laundry," I finally decided.

* * *

Oh yeah, there's no love triangle, I promise.

Also, this story is in the same universe as my other Marvel fics. I only have two of them up at this time. One is a Loki fic but it won't be mentioned in this story because I couldn't cross them in any way. The other is just a one shot right now about Tony, but it's being rewritten into a full story. The character in this story (Jo) is Tony's girlfriend's little sister. So if you've read my one shot then she is the main character's little sister. The sister and Tony both have parts in this story. In fact, the next chapter is Jo's first interaction with them.

Also, I feel like I should mention that I don't watch Agents of SHIELD (I've only seen the first episode). Not that I don't want to watch it, just that I don't have a TV. I wanted to watch it before posting the story but I don't have the time to watch the whole season right now. So if things are off or inaccurate because I haven't watched it, feel free to tell me so I can make any corrections.


	3. Chapter 3

It was mid afternoon when I finally got home. I decided to call my sister even though she was probably working. She lived in New York City in a cute little apartment in Manhattan, though she was hardly ever there anymore because she spent the majority of her time with Tony Stark. Clara moved to New York to go to school and even though I liked to think we were close; the truth was that we probably weren't anymore.

We had been marginally different growing up. Clara had always been the smart one. She was a classic beauty with our mother's traditional sense of taste. But she was ambitious, like our father. She always got good grades in school and always had some sort of extracurricular activity going on. Our father had always been hard on us because we weren't the "strapping" sons he wanted. Both of us had to prove ourselves. Only Clara went into public relations, and I chose the military.

I wasn't anything like Clara. I was a sweet, shy child who went to church with my parents even after I'd lost interest in it. I was the one who's only steady job was doing minor housework for my ailing grandparents and a brief job waiting tables at a pancake house. The only school activities I participated in were sports games and school dances.

The two of us shared a bedroom growing up, and Clara was the only one who bothered to keep it clean. She liked things neat and orderly and so it completely threw me for a loop when I found out my sister was sleeping with Tony Stark.

Our grandparents had known Howard Stark when they were young. They met on Ellis Island after immigrating from Sokovia. My grandma worked in a button factory in Brooklyn and my grandpa used to ride the train to her neighborhood every day just so he could walk her home from work.

One day a group of bullies cornered them in an alley and beat my grandpa to a pulp. Even as an old man his nose was crooked and his jaw was obviously off centered. My grandmother screamed for help, and this caught the attention of a millionaire driving around Brooklyn in his town car.

He had the driver pull over, pulled out one of his fancy high-tech guns, and saved their lives. He then herded them into the car and offered them jobs, which gave them the motivation they needed to open their own business and transfer to Ohio.

My grandparents talked about the Starks like they were royals. They had always been very pro-military, pro-America, and patriotism and all of that stuff. They believed the Starks were our equivalent of the royal family. And so every holiday and family reunion growing up, we heard the story of Howard Stark's valiant rescue, and every time we heard it, it got a little more daring and fantastical.

When Tony Stark decided to change the company from weapons manufacturing to whatever the hell he was up to these days, my family was in full support. The Starks could do no wrong. And so they had been completely elated when Clara got a job at Stark's new building in New York City. It had been a dream come true for their eldest daughter and pride and joy.

That is until a wormhole opened up above the building and sent an army of aliens raining down on Clara's workplace.

I remember hearing about the attack from my office in DC. I remember watching the newsfeed from the TV in the break room. I had a horrible feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach and a terrible sensation that I had just witnessed my sister's death. What I didn't know was that while Tony Stark was in the midst of an intense one-on-one battle with a Chitauri, and losing, Clara had gone at the creature armed with nothing but a staple remover and fierce tenacity. She had accidentally ripped out its breathing apparatus in the fight, which caused it to promptly suffocate, and she simultaneously saved Tony Stark's life. Which, of course, led to Tony helping to save the rest of the world with his super pals.

That was the day I decided never to underestimate my sister again. That was also the day Clara won my father's pride, which was something I had yet to achieve. Despite all of the medals I kept hidden in my bedroom closet.

After the attack was over and flights were no longer grounded, I booked the earliest plane to New York to make sure that she was okay and that she had a place to stay. Her Manhattan apartment had been decimated, but she didn't seem too broken up about it since I found her in Stark's penthouse with messy hair, no bra on under her wrinkled work shirt, and hickeys hidden under her collar.

Since then, Stark was doing everything he could to buy her affection. She never outright told me if they were dating or not, but they were always together, the media knew they were together, and during the holidays my family was gifted with ridiculously priced items from Iron Man. Followed by a letter from Clara, who found his purchases obnoxious.

In fact, the phone I was using to call her on was a gift from Tony, and I had refused to send it back because it was made of a thick piece of clear glass and hadn't even been released to the public yet. Clara answered the call on the second ring. Or at least, someone did.

"Hello, you've reached the secretary of Miss Clara Hayes," Tony answered with a weak impression of Marilyn Monroe. "I'm afraid that Miss Hayes is disinclined at the moment. Would you be so kind as to leave a message?"

"Tony," I snapped, as I stomped into my living room and kicked my shoes off by the front door. "You know it's me and you know why I'm calling. Either put my sister on the phone or explain to me why you agreed to help Hill and Romanoff bug my house."

"Well, for one thing," he said, using his usual voice again, "I bugged your house months ago. And two, they said it was to, you know, keep you alive. Which, believe it or not, is something I am very interested in doing. Because if I fail to do so I won't have anyone to nag me anymore. And you know how I love it when she nags." I sighed and plopped down on the fluffy blue couch under the living room window.

"Shut up and give me the phone," Clara said from the background as I leaned on the arm of the couch and put my hand on my head. It was still fairly early in the day, but I felt like falling asleep right there on the sofa. The phone shuffled again, but Tony stayed on the line.

"No, I'm not giving you anything."

"For God's sake, Tony," I groaned. "Did you really bug my house?"

"Technically, no. But also technically, yes. Technically it's JARVIS and not me. I can't listen to you, and I can't see you. I just get alerted to a rise in heart rate and unfamiliar heat signatures. Meaning JARVIS tells me when someone is in your house and when you're scared." I squinted at the lines of light left on the coffee table from the blinds.

"Oh—would that mean you could also tell if I was having sex?"

"Well, I would be able to—if you had any." The phone shuffled again, and he whispered. "And don't worry about the nightmares. I haven't told her."

"Well, thanks."

"No problem. And I'm pretty sure there's a rodent living in your attic."

"His name is Rocket, and we have made peace. So what do you think of this job, mission thing? What have they told you?"

"They haven't told me anything. So naturally, I know everything. And I think it's a stupid idea, and you shouldn't do it. But I also believe it's your business, and you can do whatever you want." I decided if he wasn't scolding me he probably didn't know my new mission might have killed his parents. I didn't want to be the one to tell him if he didn't already know.

"I was sort of looking for your opinion," I told him.

"Well, I'm guessing you already accepted the job. So my opinion is useless."

"Tony, you're being a little bit creepy, and you should probably stop."

"Blame your sister. She's the one worried about you."

"Put her on the phone."

"Yep." I pressed the phone to my shoulder so that I could peel off my socks while I waited for Tony to hand the phone over to Clara.

"Hi, Jo," Clara said just a moment later.

"Why did you let your boyfriend bug my house?" I asked as I flung my socks across the room. They landed by the entertainment center all stacked with unread books, and I decided to get them later.

"I didn't LET him bug your house. I told him I was worried about you and that whenever I ask how you're doing, you lie to me."

"You know it's a little creepy, right? Like a lot creepy."

"I know it is. I told him that. That's why he didn't actually bug you. He just has JARVIS monitor you. By the way, I DO know about the nightmares, TONY. And not because I'm a creep, but because I'm a good sister, and I know that you're not okay."

"I'm fine. I'm doing great considering. I mean—since the whole thing with HYDRA. It could be a lot worse. I could be rotting in a jail cell. My therapist said I was making progress. Of course—that was before."

"Your therapist worked for SHIELD."

"So did I."

"Yeah, but you didn't have a gun pointed at—every single person in the world."

"That was HYDRA."

"SHIELD, HYDRA. What difference does it make?"

"Your boyfriend helped design the weapon that would have killed the both of you. I know you've always had this distrust in SHIELD, and I don't blame you for that. But those of us who were actually in it for the right reasons saved your asses. You don't have to be grateful, but you could at least be a little bit more considerate."

"I just wish you picked less dangerous occupations," she said.

"I wish you picked less dangerous boyfriends," I countered. That wasn't true. I liked Tony a lot. Even if his shenanigans did sometimes put my sister's life at risk. He was far better than her last boyfriend anyway. Clara went silent for a moment.

"Fine. You win. This time," she finally answered.

"Good. So what do you think of this mission? Don't act like you don't already know either. I know Tony tells you everything." I leaned back against the couch and sighed heavily as I relaxed into the cushions and fluffy pillows.

"I think it sounds crazy and cliché like one of those cheesy romantic comedies where they pretend to be dating and end up falling in love."

"I'm not going to fall in love with Captain America."

"Can't fall in love with Cap. He has a girlfriend," Tony said from the background. "Or a someone at least. I don't know what she is."

"What?" Clara and I asked simultaneously.

"Wow, you guys are so far out of the loop."

"Since when does he have a girlfriend? He never said anything about it," Clara argued with him.

"You don't remember the chick he was banging before he went off to DC? She's one of those 'special' people."

"Banging, really? What are you a twenty-year-old frat boy now? And I don't remember any chicks. What chick?"

"So far out of the loop. What do we ever even talk about?"

"Did you know he had a girlfriend?" Clara asked me. "Why do they need you to do this job if he already has a girlfriend?"

"Well, 'special' being the key word, dear. Also, she lives in Queens."

"Okay, can you guys stop arguing for like five seconds so that I can talk to my sister?" I finally interrupted.

"Sorry," they both replied. I had a feeling that Tony had put me on speaker, and his answer proved my theory.

"Okay, so anyway. Do you think this is a bad idea or what?" Clara sighed heavily. Our constant sighing habit used to drive our father nuts.

"I don't know, Jo," Clara said. "I think it's stupid. And he sounds like a dangerous guy. I mean—from what we've seen on TV and the files Hill sent. And he nearly took Washington off the map."

"He didn't do it singlehandedly. And according to Rogers, he was brainwashed."

"Brainwashed or not, he still seems dangerous. People don't just—bounce back from that kind of thing. But you're just supposed to offer him a safe place, right? Just be careful. And keep us informed. I know you can't really tell us what's going on after next week—but you can, at least, let me know you're okay. And I don't mean physically."

"I will. And I'll do my best to stay safe. I've lasted this long. What's a one-armed super soldier against me?"

"Not funny."

"It was a little funny," Tony said.

"Not funny," Clara repeated. I rubbed the ache from my forehead.

"Alright. Well, I have to go get started on my house. I'll call you again before everything gets set up."

"Okay. Bye, Jo."

"Bye."

* * *

Shout out to Rocket for being this raccoon's namesake. Not actual Marvel character, Rocket. Just a joke. Hardy har.

This is like one of my favorite chapters. Writing for Tony gives me joy.


	4. Chapter 4

The worst part of this mission for me wasn't the possibility of being murdered by a super-soldier with a robotic arm. It was waiting tables. Hill set up the job so that I could establish my false life one week before Rogers was scheduled to come to my house for the first time. And possibly bring along his trailing shadow.

They sent someone in to work on my house because it apparently wasn't "warm and fuzzy" enough for their super-assassin. The people Romanoff sent arrived at sunrise as I was walking out of the front door to head to the diner. They were setting up flower planters and filling up a lawnmower with gas. I never mowed my lawn. Ever. Sometimes a kid who lived down the street offered to do it for a small fee, but that was the only time it ever got done. And I only ever remembered to water it when I was outside staring at the fence in boredom or when my dad lectured me about responsible homeownership.

Romanoff wanted me to be as kind and gentle as a "fairy princess." To be honest, I wasn't surprised that my house didn't make the cut. I never used it for anything other than sleeping, eating, and a place to spend my off days watching Tvland reruns. So it didn't look like something out of a "fairytale" or anything. So by the time my first shift at the diner was over, my house would be what Romanoff dubbed a "threat-free environment."

When I was in high school, I only had one real job. Usually, I made extra money helping out my grandparents and occasionally going to work with my dad to clean up his shop. One time in my junior year, my parents were short on money, and I couldn't afford the dress I wanted for prom. So I got a job and paid for it myself. I waited tables at a pancake restaurant that tried unsuccessfully to mimic IHOP. I hated every second of it.

I could feel that same seething hatred come back to me when I stepped into the diner. It was originally supposed to be a 50's themed place with pictures of old cars and long dead musicians and movie stars on the walls. The floor was a scuffed up checkerboard pattern, and their biggest seller were old-fashioned malts and shakes in various flavors. I'd never even heard of the place before Hill sent me the information, but I could already tell that I was going to dislike all of the greasy food. I already wanted to murder the milkshake machine, and I'd barely just walked in the door.

The dining area was fairly small with several booths along the windows. There were only a few separate tables and a bar where customers could sit and play with the non-working jukebox selectors. There was already a girl standing behind the counter making a malt when I came in. She appeared to be the only person in the front section of the diner beside a man at the bar drinking coffee and a woman with a sleepy kid, eagerly awaiting his early morning milkshake.

I headed around the counter and introduced myself to the girl making the malt. She said her name was Megan or Morgan, but I couldn't remember it because she didn't repeat it and wasn't wearing a nametag. She had choppy black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail even though her hair wasn't long enough to stay put. She was tall and looked uncomfortable in her chunky wedge sneakers and her halter top.

Since she was already working on a malt, she walked me through what she was doing and then took it to the little boy sitting in a booth with his mom. Even though her clothing looked uncomfortable in a place with hard floors and flying grease spatter, she quickly stuck a smile on her face as if it was the only place she wanted to be that early in the morning. Then she came back around the counter, and the professional smile fell. She nodded for me to follow her into the kitchen to find the manager.

I was going to be in training for two days, and then I would be observed for the rest of the week. I knew how to do the job since I'd done it before, but it had been a long time. Either way, it wasn't too difficult to get started. I just hated it. I never wanted to go back to waiting tables, and my hatred towards HYDRA grew even more since it was their fault I had to go back to this. The only thing that made me feel better was that Rogers was going to pay me the difference, and I'd be able to afford my mortgage payment.

When my shift finally finished, everything below the waist hurt. My thighs ached, my knees, my calves, and especially my feet. I used to wake up at four o'clock every single morning and run laps with a bunch of sweaty, stinky people, and I would rather go back to that than have to spend another day forcing myself to smile as I made milkshakes and burned my fingers on french-fry grease. My head was pounding, my stomach was heavy from my fried food lunch, and I wanted to go home and never take another step onto that checkered floor. Luckily, I didn't have to stay late, and I rushed out of there the second the manager said I could leave.

My house was startlingly different when I got home. The front lawn had been mowed to even my father's impossibly meticulous standards, and flowers had been planted in little red painted boxes outside my living room windows. There was a potted shrub beside the front door and a welcome mat with friendly little polka dots. The inside was cleaned from top to bottom so that the floor shined in the afternoon sun and there were no more cobwebs on the ceiling fans or dead bugs in the light fixtures. There was even a decorative quilt on the back of the couch and a worn and weathered patio set in the small backyard.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and looked over all of the damage done. Romanoff's decorators, or whatever they were, had even given me flowery soap dishes and a glittery shower curtain. My bed was made up like a hotel room, and my work clothes had been removed from my closet along with my military memorabilia and the collection of throwing knives my commanding officer gave me after I shipped home. Romanoff said they were going to put my stuff in a storage unit, and I sincerely hoped nothing bad happened to them.

I sat down on my bed in the center of my clean bedroom and took off my shoes. I stretched my toes and noted that, despite the new lacy curtains, my room was still relatively dark. I really hoped they hadn't called an exterminator to get rid of the raccoon in the attic either. I knew he probably posed a risk to my health and my home, but I didn't want the poor guy to be out of a home. Sometimes I found his scurrying and chattering comforting. I liked the way he made the tree shake when he shot out of the broken attic vent like a damn rocket. That was how he got his name in the first place.

I guess the new look of my place wasn't entirely weird. I got to wear my weekend clothes every day now instead of blazers and skirts. I always wanted my house to be as welcoming and comfortable as my childhood home. I just rarely spent any time at home when I worked for SHIELD, and therefore, I never spent any time working ON it. My weekends were spent drowning out the silence or putting in overtime, not waxing floors and tending gardens.

I always thought I had decent organization skills until Clara went off to college and realized she was the one organizing all my stuff for me. My mother always said that Clara was destined to be rich and never have any children and that she'd make tons of money and go on a fancy vacation every year. She said I was destined to be a mother. I liked kids, in a distant sort of way. I understood they were innocent and sometimes they made me laugh. But I couldn't imagine taking care of one. Not the way my mom did, anyway. I loved my mom, and she was awesome, but she'd chosen to dedicate her life to being a mother and never really strived for anything beyond that. I never wanted that for myself. I didn't want to do nothing but raise other people for the rest of my life.

Clara ended up on the right track. She had to fight her way to where she was. She worked her ass off through high school. I remembered yelling at her for staying up all night working on papers while I tried to sleep. She continued that determination in college and then landed her dream job building her own Public Relations department at Stark Industries. And then somehow the bastard had fallen head over heels in love with her. And while Tony was good at what he did and had a very inviting personality, he still relied on her to represent his company and correct his mistakes when he acted like a total asshole. Which he frequently did. She had to keep the media talking about him even when he wasn't doing anything, she wrote invaluable speeches (that he never seemed to use), and organized conferences and expositions. Stark needed her. And that's all I wanted. To be valuable for something other than raising children. To be needed for more than my ability to care for people. I just wanted to be good at something that could be used for a greater cause.

So I joined the military to prove to my parents and myself that I was strong and capable enough to handle something larger than myself. To prove to my father that my kindness and gentleness had nothing to do with a lack of strength. I had worked as hard as Clara did. I gave the army everything I had. Sweat and tears and literal blood. I took up hobbies that got me noticed by Special Forces. I could help people. I could become a doctor. I could make a difference and make my parents proud.

So, of course, I didn't do any of that. I got my comrades killed because I was too scared to fire back when it mattered most. I failed to save a group of children despite my mother's insistence that I had strong maternal instincts. And I couldn't even pull a damn trigger to avenge them. I thought I was doing something good by doing SHIELD's paperwork, and that obviously didn't go as planned. Now I was stuck waiting tables at a shitty 50's themed diner so that Captain America could use my house to find his friend. I had to go back to everything I had tried to fight against, just so a potentially dangerous HYDRA experiment didn't find me too "threatening."

Of course they chose me for that job. I was so small a threat that Colonel Talbot took one look at me and decided there was no possible way HYDRA could have used me or recruited me. I had to be the least threatening SHIELD agent in the entire district.

I was a goddamn failure.


	5. Chapter 5

I was right when I said I'd end up hating the milkshake machine. On my first day at the diner, I had to follow around another waiter and take mental notes about what she did. Now I was required to hand out plates and make milkshakes and take orders, though supervised. The machine was a noisy, messy thing that shook violently and loudly and could probably use a tune-up. If I didn't already hate the place, I might have offered to have Stark send them an upgrade, though that might kill their retro theme. At least it would be quieter.

I had my hand on top of the machine as the other one tried to balance the rest of it. I had made three milkshakes already, and it wasn't even noon yet. I felt Megan or Morgan slide up to me as she leaned on her elbows and sent me a smile. She was new like I was, though she'd been there a bit longer and was already off probation. Customers seemed to like her a lot, and everyone acted like she'd been there for years, and I was the baby.

"A hot guy is asking for you," she told me.

"A what?" I asked, shouting over the noisy machine.

"A hot guy. Over there." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. A man was leaning against the bar at the end of the counter. He gave me a quick wave and an easy smile. It was Wilson, standing at the end of the bar with sunglasses and a leather jacket. "Do you know him?" she asked. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to tell her that I did.

"No," I lied, turning off the machine. I waved for him to hold on and finished making the milkshake for my customer. I took it out to them, shared a few friendly words, and then told Megan/Morgan I was going on my break. Sam was still waiting for me at the end of the long counter when I approached him.

"Hayes," he said. I nodded.

"That's me," I replied.

"Oh, right. Sam Wilson." He stuck his hand out, and I shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Sam." It wasn't entirely fake. I hadn't actually been introduced to him before. It was still technically our first meeting.

"I came here—on behalf of Steve." I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Morgan/Megan was refilling ketchup bottles, but she wasn't being shy about checking him out. I nodded quickly.

"Right. Steve. Can I get you something? A burger? Some fries? Please don't ask for a milkshake." He smiled.

"A Coke would be nice."

"Have a seat in the back booth. I'll go get it."

"Thanks."

He headed toward the booth at the far end of the dining area and did another quick scan of the diner and the street outside before sitting down. I went to get him his drink, and Megan/Morgan walked over to me while I was filling it up. She still had her eyes on Sam over my shoulder.

"He's cute," she said. I nodded slowly.

"He's a friend of my…" I didn't want to say "boyfriend." Even though that was what we were supposed to be pretending. I'd only met Rogers once, and I didn't feel right using that word. "Guy—that I see on occasion," I eventually concluded. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but the corners of her lips turned up into a smile.

"You have an occasional guy friend? Is he cute too? The cute ones sometimes flock together."

"He's big. Kind of—muscular. Rides a motorcycle."

"Nice."

"Uh-huh."

I felt kind of awkward talking about Rogers that way, so I hurried back to Wilson with the soda. I set it down on the table and took the seat across from him. He'd chosen the booth at the very back and stretched his arm out over the back of the seat as he watched the place behind his sunglasses. I felt uncomfortable having my back exposed, but "waitress Jo" wasn't supposed to be uncomfortable by things like that. So I folded my hands in my lap and slouched.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" I whispered.

He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the busy restaurant. I could barely see them through the tinted lenses of his sunglasses. Luckily, no one was in our immediate area so I felt safe talking to him there. The sound of customer chatter and the obnoxious milkshake machine would drown out any interference.

"Just passing along some thoughts since you and Steve can't talk yet," he whispered as he rubbed the straw between his fingers. "Some stuff SHIELD didn't know or stuff he wants to keep private." I shook my head in confusion.

"What kind of stuff?"

"This guy—Bucky. He's a total nutcase. I had the misfortune of meeting him a couple of times. But it's kind of a touchy subject for Steve. They were best friends. Brothers. It's hard to wake up one day and find that seventy years have passed, and all of your friends are dead or old. Barnes' death was the hardest on him since he saw it himself. He wants to find the guy, thinks he can save him, but doesn't trust anyone else to do it. He's afraid the government will either kill him or manipulate him. To him, this isn't about finding Barnes. It's about saving him, you understand?"

"So this isn't—this isn't about locating a potential threat. This mission is going to be a lot longer than I anticipated, isn't it?" He sighed heavily and finally moved his eyes to mine.

"Look," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's a real personal mission for Steve. He doesn't want you to get hurt, but he wants you to know that's a risk you're taking by accepting the job. This guy is dangerous, and the people who are after him are even worse. You can back out any time you want, but be careful how you treat this. Especially when it comes to Steve. This guy, Barnes, I don't like him much." He gave a short laugh, and I smiled in response. "But I like Steve, and I know it's important for him to help this guy—you know—recover. Or at least, it's important that he tries." My smile fell.

"Recovery doesn't just happen overnight. It's a process. It could take years, and that's if he's lucky. Most people never recover at all."

"I know, and it's a concern we've taken into account. But Steve figures he just needs to get through to this guy and help him remember and he might be able to save him. Barnes' mind is uh—delicate, let's put it that way. He's violent. He's strong. I know you're Special Forces, but he uh…"

"It's okay. I know he's stronger than me. I'm not offended. I'm barely over five feet tall, and I'm not genetically enhanced." He laughed. "And I can relate to the situation. I can handle it."

"Are you sure about that?" I huffed.

"No."

His eyes moved passed me, and I turned to see what had caught his attention. Megan/Morgan was approaching the table with a basket of fries.

"Thought you guys might like a snack," she said as she sat the red plastic basket down between us.

"I think we're good, Morgan," I said. She gave Sam a flirty smile and walked off. He watched her go, not like he was checking her out, but rather that he didn't know if he could trust her.

"She seems like a nice kid," he said, leaning over the table. He took a hot fry from the basket and twirled it in his fingers. "Steve just wanted me to tell you a few things about his past with Barnes. Not stuff on record. Things a guy might tell his girlfriend. Best friends growing up. Steve was the puny nerdy kid but had a taste for trouble. Barnes was the protective older brother type. Liked to pick on him, but was always there to get him out of fights. He was proud, a bit of a lady's man. Thought he had something to prove." I felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach. I knew a thing or two about wanting to prove yourself. "You know back in those days a guy thought going to war was the best way to do that. He shipped off, left Steve behind, rose to Sergeant. Damn near perfect shot as it was. Would have given his life for Steve. Ended up doing just that."

"I already know most of this stuff. The History Channel does a Captain America documentary at least once a year." He laughed again.

"That's all Steve told me anyway. I don't know what else I can say." He stuck one of the thick cut fries in his mouth, and I waited for him to finish before continuing.

"Maybe he just wanted you to check on me," I offered. He shrugged and reached for another fry.

"I'll tell him nice things, I promise. What about you? You got any questions for me?" I watched him sift through the basket of fries until he found what he was looking for. It didn't look any different but who was I to question him?

"What about Steve's girlfriend? His real girlfriend?" He paused and glanced at me.

"She's not his girlfriend, from what I understand," he explained. "Complicated, I guess. He hasn't told me much about her. Just that I know she exists, and I know he's got it bad but pretends not to."

"Why isn't she here playing this role instead of me? If Barnes starts to remember, won't he know Steve well enough to know he doesn't feel anything for me?"

"Dunno," he said as he ate more fries. "Considering what he HAS told me about her, I guess it would be easy for Barnes to view her as a threat."

"Why? Because she has enhancements?"

"How did you know that?" he asked with furrowed brows.

"Stark told me." I could see his eyes roll from behind his sunglasses.

"Never even met the guy and he already gets on my nerves." I shrugged. My shoulder was already starting to ache.

"He grows on you."

"He's good."

"He's the best. The problem is that he knows he's the best," I told him.

"Well, yeah. It's because she's got—talents. It wouldn't take Barnes too much time to figure it out. Steve probably also doesn't want to get her involved. She doesn't have your skills either. Not strong like you."

He had his eyes on his basket of fries, but the words startled me anyway. I never thought of myself as strong or capable. At least not anymore. I couldn't shoot a man. Barely slept without nightmares. I owned a pink knife with sparkles on it. And Sam Wilson thought I had more skills than a girl with special abilities.

I cleared my throat and looked at the clock that hung above the window that separated the kitchen and prep areas.

"I should probably get back to work," I told him. "If that's all you wanted to talk to me about." He nodded slowly. I didn't think that was all he wanted to say, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

"I figure if you're Steve's girl now, it might be nice for us to be friends." I nodded and slid out of the booth.

"Yeah, sure. I'll invite you over for dinner sometime. We'll play Pictionary." He looked up at me and smiled.

"That was a joke, wasn't it?" I laughed and shook my head. It was nice to sit down for a few minutes, but my legs started aching all over again.

"We'll have a pizza party. I'll make spritzers."

"Sounds good to me." I returned the smile.

"I'll cover your drink and fries."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Rogers is paying my tab." He lifted his Coke in a pretend salute to his absent friend.

"To freedom," he said. "God bless America." I had a feeling I was really going to like Sam.

* * *

I want to thank every single person who has commented. It means a lot to me. Thank you guys so much. ^.^


	6. Chapter 6

On the day that Rogers was scheduled to arrive, I spent the day scrubbing my house again. It had gotten messy since Romanoff's people came through and I was nervous about the shadow Rogers was going to bring with him. So I needed something to keep my mind busy. I hadn't seen Rogers all week, and the only contact I'd had with him came from that one visit from Wilson and various texts from Romanoff as she played storyteller about my life.

She decided that Steve and I started seeing each other when he transferred to DC from New York. I was a nursing school dropout who worked at a café before the diner. Agent Romanoff had been bugging Rogers regularly to find a girlfriend, and he apparently worked up the courage to ask out the waitress at the café he liked to frequent. Romanoff tried to tell me that I was just the right amount of "sweet" and "old-fashioned" that the good old Cap looked for in a girl. Then we apparently got caught up in an on again, off again secret romance.

I tried to tell her that I was certain I could play that role very well, so she told me just to run with it and make stuff up. She didn't seem to think that Barnes would pay much attention to me, and therefore I'd never have to lie. I was just an excuse. It was my house they wanted, not me. But they needed a good enough reason to make Rogers visit my house.

Rogers was apparently prone to running off on missions and not wanting to drag me into his dangerous life. This was supposed to explain why Barnes hadn't seen me until now, even though I didn't think it would matter since he likely wouldn't care about me at all. But Romanoff was also worried about the former SHIELD tails or government spies who might be following Rogers and would have figured out if he had a secret girlfriend hidden away somewhere in DC. Especially if they knew I used to work for SHIELD.

Either way, Rogers' tendency to disappear at a moment's notice was supposed to explain why I was okay with him showing up unexpectedly. I was supposed to quickly forgive him so that he could be at my house a lot, and whoever was watching would probably think our relationship was strained. Especially since we were going to have trouble with the PDA stuff since we barely knew each other. But Romanoff wanted us to play on the "broken souls" kind of trope.

Rogers' apartment had been wrecked when Director Fury was assassinated by my new mission. His temporary place was now surrounded by government officials. He didn't think it was likely that Barnes would try to contact him so close to obvious spies, but he was good at sneaking away, and my house just happened to have the perfect backyard for Barnes to sneak into. So every few nights Rogers would come to my house, and we'd have to pretend to like each other in front of doors and windows. The worst part was that Romanoff insisted we shared a bed, though I wondered if that was her ploy to try and set us up.

I didn't argue it because of the off chance of Barnes actually getting into my house and night. He might find it odd that Steve stayed over but slept on the couch. I just hoped he didn't question why we slept fully clothed.

And it wasn't that I didn't find Steve attractive or anything like that. Just that sex definitely wasn't part of the job description, thankfully. Not to mention, I didn't get the feeling Steve even thought about me that way, much less wanted to get in my pants. He was probably very distracted. If not by the mission, then maybe the mystery girl in New York. Or maybe I just wasn't his type. In which case, I hoped Barnes didn't figure that out either.

But Rogers was, at least, known for being punctual and the minutes were ticking toward his expected arrival. Before this night, Barnes would have no idea that I existed at all. There was a very tiny chance that he might have seen me at the diner if he'd followed Wilson. Or seen me at the Triskelion if he'd been following Steve that day. But I doubted he'd go there, and I especially doubted he'd be able to get across the bridge without anyone noticing. I also doubted that he'd follow Sam. And if he did, he wouldn't have gotten much from that meeting anyway, except that Sam talked to a waitress who later turned out be close to Rogers.

The doorbell rang just after nine o' clock. I'd taken drama once when I was a kid, but I never really cared for it enough to take it seriously, and I definitely never thought I'd have to do it again. But I tried to remember the tricks and tips my teacher taught me and I shook out my hands as I approached the door. Sweet and gentle, that's what they wanted me to be. I just didn't know if that was even his type. Maybe he didn't like sweet and gentle at all.

I pulled the door opened and looked out at the man standing on my front steps. He was in his civilian clothes and looked tense and uncomfortable as he forced a smile. It still seemed like he hadn't slept very much, though the bruises and cuts were healing and his hair didn't look as messy. I tried to pretend to be surprised, but I figured it might be best just to act natural. How would I actually react to Steve Rogers showing up on my doorstep?"

"Hey," I said.

"Hi," he replied with a soft voice. Then he looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. I got the feeling he was nervous about the whole situation, but it would fit Romanoff's story well.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I'm sorry for coming so late. And not calling." His voice was overwrought, and he was obviously uncomfortable and irritated by the whole thing. "I just didn't want to get you involved." Now it sounded like he was reciting a script. His words seemed forced, but I was sure Barnes wouldn't have enough time to set up any bugs. And I just had to hope the guy didn't remember enough to know Steve was bad at acting.

"I figured you were in on it," I said. Then I held the door open so we could stop pretending. "Everything that happened, I mean," I added. He gave me a nod and then looked into my house.

"You mind if we talk inside?" I stepped out of the way to let him in.

"Probably a good idea," I decided. He stepped passed me, and I quickly shut the door so we could relax and stop pretending.


	7. Chapter 7

I ended up buying my house right after I got my job with SHIELD and had more money than I knew what to do with. I only did it because I thought it was what adults were supposed to do, and because I could afford it at the time. I thought it would be better than renting. In reality, I just didn't know how to survive in a civilian world. I'd never had to pay bills before, never had to be a functioning member of society. Before I was a soldier I was a kid, and my parents never actually sat me down and taught me how to do this kind of stuff. Whatever college would have taught me never happened. Clara seemed to learn how to function just fine. She went off to college and learned how to be an adult and do taxes. I learned how to pull apart and reassemble various weaponry and how to identify and treat wounds.

I had no idea how to be a person, and to be completely honest, I still wasn't sure I was on the right track. My recruitment with SHIELD had been a lucky break. I was referred by my commanding officer. I was one of many to apply for the job, and I took pride in the fact that I'd managed to find a boringly average government job. I filed paperwork, despite having been trained in medicine. I knew how to shoot a gun, despite never being able to use it on someone. And over time I got the hang of taxes and bills, despite never getting the hang of lawn maintenance and self-care.

The house had been a split moment decision, mostly brought about by a noisy apartment complex that was turning me into a rage machine. I thought it was the next step after getting a job since I had no plans to get married and have any kids. It was what my parents did when they left school, well after they got married anyway. Clara still rented, of course, but that was in New York, and it just fit better with her lifestyle. So I bought the shoddy thing and lived on my own with no pets or boyfriends or even close acquaintances. But I at least had a pest.

That was the main reason they decided to keep me in my own house instead of putting me up in a temporary one for Rogers' mission. That, and the fact that we no longer had SHIELD funding and the Talbot's spies might want to know why I'd left my house for seemingly no reason. I had already established a life there. My neighbors didn't know what I did for a living or why a twenty-something woman lived in a house all by herself. No one paid any attention to me. They paid so little attention that Captain America could probably walk down the street in his star-spangled uniform, and they still wouldn't notice.

He wasn't wearing the uniform, but he was sitting at my kitchen table. He was picking at the wood grains that had been stained by several years' worth of daily coffee spills. He wasn't drinking the water I'd set down in front of him. I stood leaning against the kitchen sink. The window overlooking the backyard was right behind me so that Barnes could see me if he was holed up in a neighbor's yard or managed to get over my fence without us knowing. But I mostly just wanted to block the fact that Rogers and I hadn't spoken a word since I let him into my house.

He was a large man, but not as big as I'd expected. I'd only seen him a few times since he showed back up again in New York and joined the Avengers Initiative. I saw him stalking around the Triskelion a few times. I had only just met him a week before, and this was the first time we'd ever been alone together. It was almost like having a celebrity in my kitchen. I didn't know how to talk to him.

"So…" I muttered, as I gripped the sink behind me and tried to look more comfortable with this strange, large man at my table. He had his back against the wall and didn't seem at all relaxed or comfortable. "Did I pass Wilson's inspection?" He gave a short laugh and shook his head.

"You passed just fine," he replied.

"Am I 'gentle' enough? What was it Romanoff said? Like a 'fairy princess?"

"Well, you do look—nice." I stifled a laugh.

"I wasn't fishing for compliments, Rogers. I was asking if I was pulling off that 'non-threatening' thing or not. I was trying to make a joke too. Also, I realize that I'll probably have to stop calling you 'Rogers.' It's going to take some time getting used to being on a first name basis with Captain America."

"Unfortunately, I think we're going to have to get used to being on a first-name basis. Bucky will see right through us if you keep calling me 'Rogers." I nodded and chewed on my lip as I examined the fridge on the left side of the kitchen and tried to find words to say. "So what do you prefer to be called? Jo? Jo-hanna? Jo-anna? Or is it Yo-honna? Yo-hanna?" I got the feeling he was just rambling now.

"Try not to overthink it. It's technically Yo-honna, but only my family calls me that. Jo is fine. I think Romanoff decided that Jo didn't sound as threatening. But whatever you want to call me is fine."

"But what do you prefer?" I cut my eyes to him again and shrugged. I was already exhausted, and my arm hurt from all the cleaning I'd done.

"Doesn't matter. I wouldn't put it passed him to see right through this anyway."

"Why do you say that?" He looked back at me with a concerned expression etched into his features. He was looking better than he had the week before. His hair was combed neatly again, the dark circles under his eyes weren't as pronounced. The cuts were healing faster than I'd expected them to.

"You've been to war, Steve. You know what it does to people. You know what it's like to come home and everything is different. Whether it's been four years or seventy. Nothing will ever be the same. You can read it on people. You can just tell. It leaves behind a—darkness." He pressed his fingers against his chin and focused on the wooden table again.

"Yeah, but I'm hoping he either doesn't recognize it, or he thinks it's something else."

"I'm sure I can come up with a tragic enough backstory. But I don't think he'll care about me enough to ask."

"Just make sure you let me know what you come up with. That way I'm not caught off guard." We both smiled again, but then I narrowed my eyes and studied him.

"So why'd you send Wilson to come talk to me anyway?" I asked him. "He said you wanted to give me some tips, but then he just gave me a shortened version of your relationship with Barnes and ate a bunch of french fries." He laughed.

"This mission isn't going to be easy," he explained as he rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, making it creak against his weight. It was usually my chair, and it wasn't used to anyone but me. "And I don't know you well enough to know how you're going to handle it. Sorry for that."

"It's okay."

"I just wanted to be sure you could handle the situation delicately enough. I heard about your incident with the—the pink knife. I just don't think that would be the right approach to take with Bucky. And I don't know if it was instinct or…" I looked down at the linoleum floor and shifted on my feet.

"Are you actually worried that I'm too dangerous?" I almost laughed. I shook my head instead. "It was instinct. That time. But it could have been worse. Remember that I also had a gun on me. It was self-defense, and I don't regret my actions. I handled it the best way I knew how."

"I wasn't referring to the incident with HYDRA. I meant the incident with Agent Harman." I nodded and slowly crossed my arms. He'd read my files. Of course he did. I shouldn't have been surprised that it was still there.

"Agent Harman was my boyfriend, Steve, and he was HYDRA. I didn't attack him unprovoked. The knife was all I had. It was still self-defense. And I think he deserved it." He smiled and for once, it seemed genuine.

"I just don't want you to get hurt. I don't know how he'll react to certain situations. You pulling a pink knife on him might end with your death, regardless of what reason you have for taking it out. It's not that I don't want you to defend yourself if you have to. I just don't want you to get killed. Alert Stark before you go for the knife. And only use the knife as a last resort." I nodded quickly.

"Understood. I'll keep the knife in check. I'm smart enough to know that I can't go up against Robocop armed with nothing but a pink knife. I'll call for help like a good fairy princess." He didn't seem to find that funny, but he said nothing about it. Or maybe he just didn't know what Robocop was. "Anyway, are you going to be comfortable sharing a bed with me? I was going to make you a bed on the couch, but Romanoff thinks that…"

"I can sleep on the couch. It won't be a problem."

"That's not what I was going to ask. Romanoff seems to think it'll blow our story if you sleep on the couch. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable. You're hardly the first captain I've had in my bed anyway—Again, that was a joke. I'm sorry. I was trying to make you relax. But Romanoff did say your sense of humor is a little outdated." He smiled and leaned back into the chair again. He folded his hands on the table in front of him, still appearing tense and poised and, therefore, uncomfortable.

"My sense of humor is just fine," he said. "Romanoff thinks she's funny. But it's a difficult situation. I know he won't come around tonight if he does at all. I just don't like putting someone else's life in danger for the sake of a lie. I should be out there looking for him. Not playing house and hoping that he shows up." I bit my lip and looked down at my bare feet again. The floor was freezing.

"So you must have really loved him, huh?" I asked. He glanced at me again.

"He was there for me when I had no one else. He was my brother, and he's all I have left now." I nodded again.

"What about your friends? What about Wilson and Romanoff?"

"I'm ninety-five years old. I don't exactly 'fit in." I snorted a laugh. He was older than my grandparents and sitting in my kitchen pretending to be my boyfriend. He had the face of a lovable puppy dog. "He's my brother," he continued as his puppy dog face went serious again. "Not by blood but in every way that matters." I gave another curt nod.

"I understand. I have a sister, so I think I know. She never had to pull me out of any fights—but she did kill a chitauri with a staple remover." He nodded and there was a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"I heard the story. Very impressive."

"You don't think Barnes will find out about her, do you?"

"No, your sister is with Stark. She's safe."

"Do you think this whole thing will even work? I mean, what if he's not even following you?"

"I don't know yet. But I think it's worth a try. What about you?" I took a moment to answer the question.

"I don't know enough about either of you to be able to answer. All I know is that when I did—if I—were to lose my memory and not know who I was, I would want to talk to the person who did." He nodded thoughtfully. "I'm going to bed, Steve. It's small, but you probably weren't going to get much sleep anyway."

"Yeah," he said. "Probably not."


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of gunfire and screaming was deafening in my ears. Everything went wrong from the moment we arrived. They said the mission would be safe and secure. The armor and artillery were just precautions. We wouldn't need them.

"Medic!" someone was shouting from the other side of the building. "Medic!"

My heart was pounding in my chest, and my hands were shaking. I didn't want to go over there. Not where the bullets were flying, and those people were screaming. But I heard his voice get more frantic as he screamed for me. I knew that voice. He was my friend. We came for the children, and I had to, at least, do it for them. It was the whole reason I trained for the job. So I could help people. I would never forgive myself if I didn't get up.

So I took a deep breath, held my gun against my chest, and force my feet to move forward. I came around the corner to where my comrade was standing over a bleeding child. She was the one who was screaming, and she couldn't have been more than ten. I could already tell by the amount of blood on her stomach that she wasn't going to make it.

"I'm here! I'm here!" I shouted as I returned my gun to the strap on my shoulder and traded it for the medical pack at my side.

I pressed my fingers against the ripped cloth Jimenez had pressed against the wound on her stomach. He didn't say anything to me as he let her go and jumped up to resume the fight. The girl had tears in her big brown eyes as she looked at me. I wanted to comfort her, even though I knew I couldn't save her life. I didn't want her to be scared or alone in her last moments.

"You're okay, sweetie. You're going to be okay," I tried to reassure her as I pulled the fabric away from her wound to assess the damage.

A bullet had struck her right through the center of her stomach. There was no way it had gone through without hitting vital organs. Even if I could stop the bleeding, she would still die. There was too much damage and not enough time to help her. There was no exit wound, which meant the bullet was still in there. I bit my lip to hide the flood of emotion that threatened to burst out of me. I looked back into her eyes and pressed my hand to the side of her little cheek. I forced a smile.

"Don't be afraid," I told her. But I knew that was useless.

There was shouting again from the other side of the courtyard where most of the fighting was taking place. For a moment, the gunfire ceased, and the only sounds came from the screams of terrified civilians. And then I heard the one word I didn't want to hear.

"Grenade!"

The explosion rocked the courtyard. One moment I was looking into that little girl's terrified eyes and the next thing I knew I was yards away, lying on a pile of debris flat on my stomach. I could feel the burns on my ear and my face. I could hear nothing but ringing in my ears that drowned out all noise but the pounding of my heart. I struggled to get back to my feet so I could find the little girl.

She was lying several feet away from me, under a blanket of plaster and brick. Her eyes were still wet with tears, and she stared unblinkingly at the sky.

"Jo," a voice spoke through the ringing. "Jo!" I felt hands on my shoulders, and I gasped as I gripped his arms.

"Steve," I replied when my surroundings worked pushed through the haze of sleep, and I realized where I was. At home in my dark room with the tree-shaded walls. Steve was in my bed, shaking me out of my nightmares, much too big for such a small space.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He asked like a fellow soldier, not a boyfriend concerned for his girlfriend. My heart was pounding and in the silence, I could hear my own ragged breathing. I was shaking, and my body was damp with sweat. I nodded quickly anyway.

"I'm fine," I told him. "I'll be fine." But then his eyebrows creased, and he looked at me more thoroughly than most people did. It was the way fellow soldiers looked at me on the outside. As an equal, a comrade, someone who understood.

"You don't really believe that," he said flatly. I released his arms and tried to relax on my bed. I rubbed my forehead as he leaned on his elbow and rested his hand under his head to balance himself on the small iron-framed bed.

"No," I admitted. "I don't believe that." Then I turned away from him and rolled to my side. So I could deal with my nightmares and the lingering fear alone. I felt him shift, and his arm wrapped around my body, heavy and warm. "You don't have to do that," I whispered. "No one is going to see."

"I know," he replied.

I didn't say anything, but I kept my eyes on the window where the shadows of tree branches danced on the glass. A pale green light made them stand out. That meant the neighbors' motion sensor light was on. They didn't have any pets, but it was probably just the raccoon. I closed my eyes and sighed. Steve's body was warm against me, and I could feel my heartbeat slow to match his. This wasn't part of the deal that we had agreed on, but it was nice anyway. I never could get the hang of sleeping alone. And having someone there who understood made it easy to push the thoughts away and go back to sleep.

"Goodnight, Steve," I said into the darkness.

"Goodnight," he replied from behind me.


	9. Chapter 9

If I ever had to choose my perfect housemate, it would be Steve Rogers. He didn't stay over every single night, but whenever he did my house always ended up magically cleaner than it had been before he arrived. He was quiet too. We talked in soft voices because we hardly ever knew what to say and didn't want our discomfort with each other to be overheard. But he cooked, he cleaned, and when he was upstairs, he didn't stomp on the floor and shake the light fixtures.

My ex-boyfriend used to do the exact opposite. Whenever he came to stay with me, which was often because he didn't like his neighbors, he would leave behind a trail of garbage. He would walk around upstairs and stop on the floor so hard that the light fixtures downstairs would rattle, and I could never concentrate. He didn't cook, he didn't clean, and he sang. God, he sang awful.

He was the only boyfriend I'd had since leaving the military. He was a SHIELD agent. Scratch that. HYDRA. And I didn't know that at the time. No one did. But I had seen something in him. I didn't know what it was then, but I knew it was dark. It was a hunger for power and control. Something was always off about him, and not just because he stomped around my house like a triceratops and sang loudly. But because he felt the need to shove me into the refrigerator over an argument about the dirty laundry he'd left stinking up my bedroom. The argument ended with my favorite pink knife at his throat.

I won't lie. He was well trained, and he could have snapped my neck with his pinky finger. I was Special Forces, I was a medic, I was trained, and I thought I was pretty good. But he was Marines, and he was much much bigger than me. He hadn't felt the least bit threatened by my bedazzled switchblade. He just laughed in my face, and it took everything I had not to cut him open just to make him afraid for half a second.

It wasn't the first time I'd had to battle that urge, but it was definitely the first time I didn't act on it.

I made him leave my house, and he went crying to SHIELD about my "erratic behavior." They made an inquiry and decided that they felt "concerned" about my tendency to "snap" violently. But they allowed me to keep my gun and my knife and said they'd keep an eye on me. They had my therapist watch out for signs of my impending freak out, but nothing ever came of it. I never "snapped" again. And the fight with HYDRA didn't count because everyone was fighting and I just provided amusement with my pink knife.

After HYDRA had fallen, Oscar took off like the rat dog he was, and I hadn't seen or heard from him since. Our breakup happened long before HYDRA fell, but he was the one who started the running joke about me and my stupid bedazzled switchblade. He was the first to laugh when I'd whipped it out in the middle of a gunfight. I always kept it on me just in case I ever saw him again. I probably could have shot him without any remorse, but if he was going to die, I wanted it to be with a sparkly pink knife sticking out of his chest.

Aside from him, the only ever housemates I'd had were my family and my squadron. My parents were always obnoxiously loud and stompy too, but Clara was easy to live with because she liked to clean. She complained a lot, but she still did it. The point is that I just didn't know a whole lot about living with other people.

Having Steve in my house was more enjoyable than bothersome. Even though he was always worried about intruding or overstepping his boundaries. He was a good guy and did his best to keep his distance and keep me comfortable. He never used the upstairs bathroom except to shower, even in the middle of the night. He never touched my stuff. He always cleaned his dishes right after using them and kept his things in a neat little pile out of the way.

We didn't really click enough to fake physical affection in front of windows like Romanoff wanted. The both of us were too quiet and withdrawn as it was, and so we figured forcing it would seem too unnatural. Technically, we had more in common than we initially thought, but we weren't supposed to talk about those things. So we found our conversations always fell short. And we just hoped Barnes either wasn't watching or suspected we had a riff in our relationship.

Steve was sitting at my kitchen table again, but he wasn't any less tense than usual. His shoulders were always squared and straight and his eyes alert for danger. He'd spent the entire day with me as we gallivanted around the yard and mowed the lawn or pulled up weeds. We laughed and talked and pretended to be happy, but even when the conversations died, or we were too busy I would catch him staring at the shadows or watching every car that passed by.

I made him some tea in the hopes that it would help him relax. Clara always drank tea, and she said it was the only reason, besides coffee, that she didn't murder Tony herself. She also told me she gave it to Tony when he was stressed out. But then again he probably just told her that it helped to make her feel better. Tony wasn't a soldier, but I could see the same darkness in his eyes that people saw in mine. Tea never did the trick for me.

Steve took a cautious sip out of the purple mug I'd stolen from the diner by accident. He winced from the heat of it and then looked up at me.

"Thank you," he said, though it felt fabricated. Steve didn't strike me as a tea drinker, but the Jo "character" I was playing did.

"I figured fairy princesses are the kind of people who offer you tea," I whispered. He smiled and took another sip.

"I wouldn't know. I can't say that I've ever met any."

"You have met Thor, though." For the first time since I'd met him, he snorted a real genuine laugh and shook his head. But it faded quickly, and he set the mug on the table to conveniently look at his watch.

"I better get going. Sam didn't want me to be late. You know—stuff." I nodded quickly. As if it didn't bother me that I didn't get to do "stuff" and I was locked in a job waiting tables while they hunted for Barnes or dealt with the repercussions of the incident.

"Yeah, of course. More stuff. Will I be seeing you again tonight or are you just going home?"

"Depends on how it plays out. If it's too late, I'll just go home. So don't wait up for me."

He stood and headed into the hallway toward the living room. I followed after him so that I could walk him to the door. We paused in the entryway with the door open, and he leaned down to peck my cheek with a nervous kiss. That was about the most he ever did. Romanoff made a few suggestions over text, but Steve looked momentarily scandalized and wouldn't tell me what she'd said. The only time he seemed comfortable enough to touch me was when I had nightmares, and he would let me steal his warmth long enough to fall asleep again.

It didn't bother me because I didn't think Steve was likely to open up to anyone enough for a relationship to become a realistic option for him. I figured that was why he wouldn't talk about the girl Tony mentioned. But you'd think partially living with a guy for a few weeks would initiate some sort of friendship. The only time we ever bonded was when our pasts came back to haunt us. There was never a need for words. We had an understanding. And to be fair, that was all I ever wanted from anyone. We weren't even dating, and it was probably the healthiest relationship I'd ever been in. How pathetic.

Steve was a nice guy, though, and sometimes when we were playing the part, we would laugh and forget about the lie for a little while. Steve wasn't a very good liar, and being in my warm fuzzy house was taking him away from the environment he'd built around himself. Steve was meant for fighting and protecting people. And even when he slept he was ridged and as straight as an arrow. He would get up at the slightest creak or rustle from the raccoon in the attic. He would sometimes pace in the middle of the night. I never said anything because I sometimes got up just to walk around the house by myself.

I tried to put myself in Steve's shoes. I attributed his discomfort to the thoughts of his missing friend. I imagined myself losing the person I loved the most in the world and then waking up alone, only to be thrust into a battle and shoved into a job you never asked for. Then to find the person that you thought you'd lost. To see them tortured and brainwashed and lost. I didn't have to imagine why it kept him up at night. Clara and I weren't even that close anymore, and I couldn't even stomach the idea of losing her that way.

Steve gave me a quick, nervous smile before turning and heading down the driveway to the motorcycle that was parked against the curb. I watched him climb onto the bike and kick the engine to life. It rumbled loudly, and I closed the door and took a deep breath. I headed back into the kitchen to find his half empty mug and dump it into the sink. Then I saw a shadow move from the corner of my eye.

I tried not to freeze. Years of training had taught me to be alert for danger. A civilian waitress probably wouldn't have noticed the slight movement at all, but I still felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and I paused. Then I quickly sat the mug down on the bottom of the metal sink and made sure I was wearing the bracelet. When I turned around, the shadow was standing in the archway, hiding under a dark jacket and a baseball cap.

Steve asked me to keep the house as dark as possible. No porch lights. No lights in the backyard. Only use lights in rooms I was occupying and shut them off as I left. Barnes was more likely to show up if there were plenty of places for him to hide. And it appeared that Steve had been right. But they were all wrong about one teeny tiny little thing. They said that Barnes wouldn't show himself to anyone but Steve. Not to me. I was just the backup. The prop for the lie. The provider of the threat-free environment.

And then I remembered that a civilian waitress probably would have panicked for find a dark shadowy stranger in her hallway. So I jumped backward against the counter and put my hand over my chest. My heart really was pounding with fear, and I was itching to reach for the panic button on my bracelet just to get out of the situation. But I figured if JARVIS was monitoring my heart rate and heat signature, Tony probably already knew I wasn't alone. We'd been prepared for this, so I had to do what Steve wanted.

He stood just outside the glow of the kitchen light. His shoulders were set straight and tense like Steve's. He was breathing hard, and I couldn't make out much of his face except for the beard that was growing on his jaw. I couldn't see enough of his face to place a resemblance to the man in the photos. But who else would sneak into my house in the dark?

"Bucky?" I asked. His head moved just a twitch as he recognized the name.

"You know who I am?" he asked. His voice was low and gravely, careful of every word. But despite the rawness of his tone, I could sense something else in the way he was breathing. Desperation. Eagerness. Maybe fear.

"Steve told me about you." He took a step forward, and I took a step back, sliding my body along the counter. He froze.

"You're afraid of me." I took a moment to answer.

"Most people would be afraid of a stranger in their house."

"I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't know where else to go." He reached out, and his hand caught in the light, illuminating blood that dripped down from his glove and onto my floor. "I need help."

"Oh my god," I said as instinct kicked in and I rushed forward. His hand shot back to his side since he hadn't anticipated my sudden movement. I paused when I realized what I'd done. He was afraid of me too. "Let me help you. Please?" He hesitated and looked down at his hand. He flexed his fingers as if he wasn't registering the pain. The blood was flowing freely enough to leave small puddles and droplets behind on the linoleum.

"Can you help me?" he finally asked.

"I won't hurt you." I reached for him, and he jerked back and away from me. "Just trust me," I said, putting my hands up to show him that I was unarmed. "You know Steve? Captain America? He trusts me. He wouldn't let anything happen to you." I didn't know how true that was, but he looked up at me again. I could see his eyes, shaded by the hat. He stepped into the kitchen again. "Sit down on the chair, okay?" I pulled one of them away from the table, and he cautiously limped himself into a seated position. He rested his other arm on the table, and I reminded myself to keep my eyes on it. "I'm going to remove your jacket. Is that okay?"

He looked up at me and gave a single quick nod. He still seemed uncertain about the situation. I just didn't know if it was because he didn't trust me, or if he didn't trust himself. I decided it was probably both.

I reached forward and gently unzipped his jacket with shaking fingers. I dragged it down across his stomach, revealing the light cotton shirt that probably didn't keep him very warm at night if he was sleeping on the streets. I glanced at the arm that was resting on the table as he flexed his fingers again. That was the weapon I had to be cautious of.

He let me pull the jacket back and helped me slide his right arm out of the sleeve so that I could examine the gash just above the crease of his elbow. I ran my fingers over his skin, assessing the deepness of the wound and making sure no vital tendons or arteries were punctured. Luckily, it seemed to just skim over skin and muscle, although in a very soft spot. Which explained the amount of blood.

"I can stitch it for you," I told him. "I used to be a nurse. Or at least, I would have been." That was a lie. "It doesn't look too bad. I just want to make sure the skin heals and doesn't get infected." He nodded shortly again, and I ran my fingers down his arm and paused on the purple disfigured wrist. "What happened to your wrist?"

"Broke it," he said.

"How long ago?"

"I don't know. A few weeks. I heal fast."

"It doesn't matter how fast you heal if the bone is out of place. It needs to be set. If you ever want to use it again." He looked back at me and his expression darkened.

"I don't know how," he finally said. I nodded.

"I can do it. It'll hurt but—I can do it. You'll want to keep it wrapped up too. I'm afraid I don't have the ability to make you a cast." I dragged another chair to his side so that I could sit down next to him. Then I cautiously took his arm and set it on my lap. He tensed again, and I looked back up. His face was much closer to mine now, and his nostrils were flared like he didn't trust me not to hurt him. "Trust me," I said.

He didn't argue, but I don't think he trusted me either. I ran my fingers over his arm, poking at the purple bruises until I could locate the break in his bone. The fracture felt clean and could easily be set with enough pressure. But he wasn't going to like it. And I couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't set him off. So I took a deep breath and wrapped my hand around his arm and placed my palm over the fracture.

"Okay," I warned him. "On three. Are you ready?" He nodded once. "One, two, three." Then pressed down with my palm and yanked his arm back. He grunted from the pain as the bone snapped back into place. He yanked it away from me and cradled it against his chest, but showed no other signs of being in pain. "I'm sorry," I said.

He didn't answer. So I stood to find my first-aid kit from a cupboard. When I came back, he was still sitting exactly as I'd left him. I set the box down on the table beside his resting arm.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything to help with the pain. Ibuprofen might help with inflammation but not much else. Not unless you want me to take you to a hospital," I told him. His eyes immediately darted to mine.

"No," he said firmly. I nodded again.

"I kind of figured. But are you hurt anywhere else? I noticed you were favoring one leg." He made a fist with his left hand, and my fingers twitched for the bracelet on my wrist. But then he relaxed them again and spread them out over the table.

"No," he said.

"The limp?"

"Bruised."

So I nodded and opened the large box. I was lucky enough to have everything I needed to stitch his arm. Being medically trained gave me an advantage when it came to medical supplies. So I got everything I'd need and sat down beside him again. He didn't look at me. His eyes were staring into the shadowy hallway, and he kept his broken and bloodied arm clutched to his chest.

"So—can I ask you a question?" I asked as I pried his arm away from his body. I took a bandage roll and wrapped it around his wrist. I didn't have a splint, and my only sling would be too small for his arm. It would have to do until I could get something better. He didn't answer me. "I just want to know why you came to me instead of Steve. He's sort of—been hoping you might show up."

"I know him," he told me as I brought the bandage around his arm. "I don't know how I know him. I know that I meant something to him. I'm supposed to kill him."

"So—is that why you came to me? Because you think you still have to kill him?"

"I needed help. I didn't know where else to go. I needed information too. You were the only option."

I tied off the bandage and secured it as tight as I could. I hoped it was tight enough to keep his wrist stable while it healed, but swelling would probably make it uncomfortable for him. Once I finished that, I began clearing away the blood that had dried on his skin and pooled in the crease of his elbow. He didn't flinch when I cleaned the cut. He didn't even seem to notice it.

"I'm afraid I only know what Steve's told me, which isn't very much. He's not much of a talker." I smiled, but he was still gazing across my kitchen. Glaring was more like it. I wondered if he even knew how to smile anymore, or how long it had been since the last time he did.

"I'll take whatever you can give me," he said. I nodded slowly and reached for the needle packet. I wasn't going to tell him anything unless he asked directly. I didn't know enough about Steve to sound authentic. But he didn't ask anything as I threaded the needle and prepped it for his arm.

"I'm going to start now. It'll hurt a bit, okay? But I promise I got top marks for this." He didn't answer, again. So I stuck the needle in his skin and looked up to judge his reaction. His nostrils were flared again, and he had gone stiff and tense. His gloved metal fingers were clenched into a fist, but he didn't try to hit me so I kept going. "Are you going to tell me what happened?" I asked as I began to stitch the wound.

"It was an accident," he repeated.

"You didn't hurt anyone, did you?"

"I didn't mean to."

My biggest mistake was that I reacted on instinct, and so did he. I reached up and turned his face toward me. His body froze solid like a rock. I forgot that he probably wasn't accustomed to unexpected physical contact. At least not in any way that didn't end painfully for him. His jaw tightened, and his breathing picked up.

"What did you do?" I asked him. "Did you hurt someone?"

"I didn't mean to," he repeated in a colder voice. I was too worried about what he might have done to notice the threatening tone that was warning me away like a hissing alligator, preparing to attack.

"You have to call the police."

I'd said exactly the wrong word at exactly the wrong time. HYDRA had turned him into a machine, and I had pushed the right button to make that machine spring to life. He had just been a confused, broken man, and now he was a weapon. I saw the other arm jerk forward and felt it slam into my chest. I fell backward off of the chair and walloped the counter enough to smack my head and rattle my teeth. Before I could even react enough to reach for my pink knife or the panic button, I felt the pressure of his metal hand as he pinned me to the counter by my collarbone. He was breathing heavier, and his eyes had darkened violently. He wasn't the same man I'd just been speaking to moments before. This was the Winter Soldier.

"Bucky," I said softly, as I tried to pry his unmovable fingers from my collarbone. They were digging into my skin and pinching my bone. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm not your enemy. I'm just a girl. I'm a civilian. You're hurting me." I knew that since HYDRA was involved, the words I was saying probably didn't matter much to him. He got his target regardless of who got in the way. But he released me anyway. I slumped against the floor and rubbed my fingers over my aching shoulder.

"You're just like him," he murmured as he stepped back toward the darkened hallway. The jacket was still hanging from his shoulder, and the needle was hanging by the thread still attached to his skin. He held his bandaged wrist to his chest again. "He wouldn't want me to hurt anyone either." Then he walked into the hallway and disappeared into the shadows.

"Bucky, wait," I said as I jumped to my feet. But it was too late, he was already gone. So I fell back against the counter and rubbed the forming bruise at the back of my skull as I closed my eyes. What was it that Romanoff called him? A ghost.


	10. Chapter 10

My cell phone buzzing is what broke me out of my daze. I was still sitting on the kitchen floor rubbing my collarbone and thinking about cleaning up the trail of blood. It was late, and I wasn't expecting anyone to call, but the loud buzzing brought my attention back into sharper focus. I stood up and located the phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. I'd set it down when I made Steve's tea and never picked it back up. My sister's name flashed across the screen, so I pressed accept and brought it to my ear.

"Hello?" I asked as I cleared my throat and tried to find my voice.

"Is he still there? Short answers. No details," Tony responded.

"No."

"Did he hurt you?" My collarbone ached and burned, and I hesitated to answer.

"No."

"You think he'll be back tonight? Should I call Rhodey?"

"No."

"Do you need any help? Anything at all?"

"No."

"Alright—Let me know if you need me."

"I will."

"Goodnight. Keep safe."

"You too."

I hung up and set the phone back down on the counter. My fingers weren't shaking anymore, and now that the adrenaline had run its course, I was exhausted. But I had to get rid of the blood before it dried and stuck to my floor. So I went to get the supplies to clean it up. I filled a bucket with bleach and water and then sat down on the floor to wipe the blood away. But when I tried, it just left a smear of violent red across my floor. I had to shut my eyes and take a deep breath.

My commanding officer, Russell, used to make me count to four like I was imagining my heart beating along. It was how he kept me grounded when he thought I needed it. I remembered him reminding me to do it while we stood in an alleyway listening to the sound of gunfire, just moments before my friend was shot right before my eyes.

"One, two. Three, four," I whispered, imagining my heart beating along so that I could work passed the lump in my throat.

Blood never bothered me when I was younger. Blood didn't seem to be a problem when I was putting sutures in Barnes' arm, but now that it was smeared all over my floor my stomach felt heavy. I swear I could smell that sickly metallic scent hanging in the air. It reminded me of that day, with Tran's blood sprayed on my face and that little girl bleeding out over my hands.

It was all in my head, I reminded myself. I couldn't actually smell the blood. I took another deep breath and counted all of the things I really could smell. The bleach from the bucket, the scent of my shampoo and antiseptic cleansing wipes. No blood. I opened my eyes again.

"One, two. Three, four," I counted. And then I washed it away.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw blood and my fingers digging into flesh in search of a slippery artery. Even though I hardly knew Steve, my house felt warmer and more welcoming when he was there. So I paced back and forth in my bedroom watching the shadows on the wall. It was a windless night, but the old house still creaked and groaned. Every sound made my heart jump into my throat. Romanoff called him a ghost, and my room was full of shadows.

I was too lost in my own thoughts to notice the rumble of a motorcycle engine. I jumped when I heard the front door close downstairs. But then I remembered that Barnes hadn't made a sound at all. He'd slipped in and out of my house without the slightest noise. It had to be Steve letting me know he was there. I heard him do a quick check of my house like he always did. Even when he was supposed to appear comfortable and relaxed. It was in his nature to check, and Barnes would have been surprised if he hadn't. Then I heard his feet on the stairs, and I resumed my pacing. I didn't want him to find me there clutching my sweater by the window like a timid deer.

"Hey, I thought you'd be asleep by now," he said when he opened the door and stepped into my bedroom. He was casual, and I wondered if Stark had even told him. He crossed the room, closer to where I was standing, and draped his jacket over the chair under the window. His shield came to rest beside it.

"I couldn't sleep," I told him as I passed the window. His eyes glanced around the room and then focused on my clenched hands. I was holding my sweater to myself. I was breathing too quickly. His eyes met mine, and they went from friendly to stern in a split second.

"The kitchen smelled like bleach," he whispered. Then Steve the pretend boyfriend disappeared and I saw Steve the Avenger. He moved his hand out and pulled my clenched fist away from my sweater to reveal my shoulders. There were scars on one side, and the marks Barnes' metal fingers had left on the other. He looked up at me again.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked.

"I thought Stark would have," I admitted.

"Stark never tells me anything. Why does the kitchen smell like bleach?"

"He was injured. It was minor. At least what he allowed me to see was. I had to reset a broken wrist and managed to stitch most of a cut before he panicked and left." I took a deep breath. "I don't think he was ready to see you just yet. He seemed—afraid."

"Of what?"

"He's still under the impression that he has to kill you. And he—overreacts quickly."

"He hurt you."

"I've had worse."

His eyes flicked to my other shoulder where the scars from my bullet wound were still thick and visible. He stepped away so I pulled the sweater back over my shoulders and moved toward the bed so I could pull the sheets back. I hated admitting that I felt safer with Steve in the house. It was natural for me to be scared of Barnes. If it had been any other kind of intruder, I might not have been afraid. But most intruders weren't trained killers with above average strength and skills. If I couldn't have anything stronger than my voice and a sparkly pink knife, at least I had another person with above average strength and skills. Steve followed me and reached for the pillow I'd just picked up.

"You should have told me," he whispered. "Regardless of what Stark said or did." I turned around to face him so that we were only inches apart in the darkness. He seemed tense, but I felt more relaxed just having him there.

"Steve," I said, just as quietly but with more sternness in my tone. "I don't think he wants to talk to you just yet. I can handle it. I don't believe he meant to hurt me. He let me go when I told him he was hurting me. But he's obviously still got some bugs that aren't going to go away overnight. He's trying. That's what matters."

"And you think you can fix him?"

"I think he chose me for a reason. He still wants to kill you, but he knows that he shouldn't. He's piecing things together, and he's confused. He came to me because he wants to know who he is. He went to me first because I'm exactly what you and Romanoff wanted me to be. I'm 'gentle' and safe. Let me handle it for now. He'll reach out to you when he's ready. Do you understand?" His lips were pinched shut, but he kept his blue eyes on mine. Then he nodded once.

"Just promise me that I can trust you. He's all I have left, Jo." I had a feeling he wasn't afraid that I'd hurt Barnes, but that I'd turn him over to Talbot.

"You chose me for a reason too. I can do this. I won't let anything happen to him if I can help it."

"If he gets violent again—I want you to press the panic button. I'll be here in half a second."

"I know. I will." I turned back to the bed and climbed in.


	11. Chapter 11

I knew that I'd scared Barnes off by suggesting he call the police. There was a possibility he might not come back. So Steve decided if a month went by without a word from him we could go our separate ways, and he'd go back to hunting instead of playing house. And then I'd have to find a new way to pay my mortgage because the first thing on my to-do list was quitting my job at the diner.

Romanoff told me to treat the mission like a vacation, but that wasn't an easy thing to do. I hated waiting tables more than I'd hated training in heat and memorizing medical terms. But I had to keep with the charade that I was just a simple waitress who never did anything exciting other than allow Captain America to spend the night at her house a few times a week.

A few days after Barnes showed up in my kitchen, Steve left early in the morning and told me he wouldn't be back. He had to go to New York for some secret meeting with Tony. My nervousness about Barnes coming back had waned considerably over the week. So I didn't react the same way when I walked into the living room after work and found him standing beside my couch. I stopped short in my tracks, and the movement was so abrupt that my sneakers squeaked against the floor and made him glance at me. He was shutting my blinds against the setting sunlight.

"You came back," I noted.

"Yes," he replied.

"Can I check your arm?"

"Yes."

I motioned for him to sit down on the couch and he sat with his spine perfectly straight and his eyes staring directly ahead. I cautiously took the seat beside him as he pulled his arm out of his coat enough to reveal the wound I'd tried to stitch. It was swollen and puffy now, but healing. I'd stitched enough of it so that it would heal properly, but it might leave a scar. He'd ripped off the thread and needle with something sharp and blunt, so the thread was still frayed and sticking out at the end.

"It looks okay," I told him. "It would be better if you'd let me finish, but it doesn't look infected. Of course, now I remember that you can't get infections. If you come back in a few days, I can take the sutures out." I wrapped my hand around his arm and pulled the rest of it out of his coat sleeve. The bandage around his wrist was already dirty and frayed. I unwrapped it and examined his swollen wrist.

"You should have removed the bandage when it started to swell," I told him. "Or at least let it breathe when you're stationary. I would have told you that if you weren't in such a hurry to leave."

"I didn't know."

"Well, lucky for you I got a few things just in case you came back." I stood up and went to the kitchen to get the bag I'd hidden in the cupboard with my first-aid kit. When I came back, he still hadn't moved, but his eyes followed me as I sat down beside him. "I had a wrist brace, but my wrists are smaller than yours. So I got you a new one." I ripped the tag off and pulled his arm onto my lap. Then I wrapped it around his hand and secured it. "If it starts to swell again I'd advise you to give it some breathing room, but you shouldn't have a problem. Better yet, if you come back here I'll get you some ice for it." I let him go, and he pulled his arm back through his sleeve.

"Thank you," he murmured.

I looked over his face now that I could. He was still wearing the baseball cap, and his brown hair was secured at the nape of his neck with a cheap rubber band, like the kind you peel off of a newspaper. Even though he'd closed the blinds, the room was bright enough for me to see his face. He had almost a full beard going and looked tired and dirty. He kept his eyes off of mine. My guess was that he didn't like eye contact, and I couldn't exactly blame him for that.

"You're welcome, Bucky," I replied. "Now will you tell me what happened?" I knew it was a risk asking him again since that was what set him off the last time, but I also knew it was important to make sure no one was dead or dying somewhere.

"I don't know your name," he said.

"Johanna. Most people call me Jo. Now will you tell me what happened to you, Bucky?"

"It was him. He broke my arm."

"Steve?" He nodded uncomfortably. "What about the cut?"

"I didn't kill them," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt them, but I didn't kill them."

"Were they seriously injured?"

"No."

"That's good then. That's progress, right?" He turned his dark gaze on me.

"Progress toward what?"

"Do you want to kill people, Bucky?" I decided to keep using his nickname. Maybe it would spark some memories or help him differentiate between James Barnes and the Winter Soldier.

"I don't know." I took a deep breath.

"What do you remember? Do you remember anything from—before?"

"Sometimes. Falling. Snow. Faces. Voices." I nodded.

"Steve told me that you fell from a train."

"I think I remember the train."

"Do you remember anything else? Anything concrete?"

"I remember lying in the snow. Screaming." He said it with a flat voice that was devoid of any emotion. I didn't know how to respond to that. I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder and offer him comfort, but I wasn't sure how he would feel about me touching him that way.

"If you remember that—then you'll probably remember more. Just give it some time," I reassured him.

"He said that we were friends. I saw—at the museum. I saw my name and my face. He was telling the truth."

"He told me you were his brother. Not by blood but in every way that mattered. You were all each other had for a time. And you still are."

"He has you." I was startled for a moment. I forgot that part. Then I gave a quick nod.

"Sometimes, I suppose. But it's not the same. I'm not family. I don't have any connection to that part of his life. He doesn't love me like he loves you." His eyes finally moved to mine.

"Maybe he's afraid," he offered.

"I don't think there's any reason for anyone to be afraid of me."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No," I told him. I was surprised to find myself believing that. He'd scared the wits out of me the other night when he appeared in my kitchen. But finally sitting there talking to him and learning about him, I wasn't afraid anymore. He could still hurt me, but I didn't believe he wanted to.

"I'm a monster. You should be."

"You're not a monster."

His metal arm moved again, and I froze. But the hand just gently brushed the sweater off of my shoulder, revealing the black and purple bruises he'd left on my skin.

"I hurt you," he observed.

"You didn't mean it," I tried.

"Yes, I did."

"You're hardly the first person to put bruises on me."

"I know that." He looked into my eyes again. They were dark, not in color but in expression. Sometimes I would see them slide out of focus, making his eyes look almost empty and unseeing. But they were focused now. "I can see it," he said.

"You can see what exactly?" I questioned.

"Darkness."

I reached up to lift his metal hand from my shoulder. He tried to jerk away, but I wrapped my fingers around his and pulled his gloved hand onto my lap. I enveloped his hand in both of mine. I wasn't sure if he could feel me. I didn't know what kind of technology it was or if it was capable of translating pressure to his brain. But he used it like he could feel it, and he could see me holding his hand.

"Did I hurt you again?" he asked.

"No," I replied. "I think you just underestimate the strength of it. You're not used to using it gently. You'll get there. And you won't hurt me again, right?"

"I meant to hurt you. I wanted to."

"But you didn't want to kill me. You could have."

"I wasn't told to. You posed no real threat."

"You were told to kill Steve, and you didn't." His grip on my hands tightened painfully. I winced but didn't let him go. "Why didn't you?"

"I failed."

"You didn't fail. You made your own choice. That's called free will. You did the right thing. It's progress, Bucky."

"You know what they did—What they made me. A monster." I pulled one of my hands free from his tight grip.

"Can I touch you?" I asked.

He nodded so I reached out and held his cheek against the palm of my hand. Maybe they were right about me being gentle toward him. I doubted he had been this close to someone, who wasn't hurting him, in a long time. He couldn't have talked to Steve because he still felt the urge to complete his mission or the familiarity would have overwhelmed him. He might have lashed out. He needed warmth and kindness. The character they were forcing me to play, not the real me. I didn't want to think about how he'd react when he found out I wasn't really that person. I was broken too, but he said he could see that.

"You're not a monster," I insisted as I made him look into my eyes. His expression leaned more toward confused than blank as he searched my eyes. "What happened to you, what they did to you," I felt his grip tighten, and I had to take a deep breath before continuing, "That was wrong. And right now, you might not know the difference between right and wrong. But your memories will start to make sense again. They'll come back. Probably jumbled, but you can piece them together. You can be Bucky again."

"Who has the right to say what's right and wrong?" he asked me. "What if I'm not Bucky anymore?"

"Then you learn how to be who you want to be. Whether it's Bucky or someone else. You'll learn how to live again and how to decide for yourself what right and wrong mean."

"How do you know for sure?" I pulled my hand away and locked it around his metal one again.

"Because I had to do that once too. Not exactly the same. But…" I reached up and pulled my sweater back to reveal the scars on my left side. His right hand moved from the couch and cupped my shoulder, his thumb traced over the damaged skin. It was the first time in a long time that someone didn't seem to find the scars disgusting or frightening. No one ever looked at them with that same level of understanding. Not even Steve.

"I didn't go through what you went through, but I know what it's like to wake up and not know who you are and wonder if your memories actually belong to you. I know what it's like to feel detached from the person they tell you-you are. And things will never be exactly as they were. And maybe you'll never live a full life. But you'll live. And that's what's important. Do you want to live, Bucky?"

He looked directly into my eyes again, almost as if he'd never actually considered that before. I regretted asking him since he probably hadn't put a value on his own life in a very long time. But he parted his lips, and his eyes narrowed in confusion again. The word, "Yes," came out in a whisper. I just didn't know if this was a new feeling for him or not.

"Then it's progress," I told him.

He moved his hand away from mine and pulled the both of them into his own lap. He flexed his fingers again, either testing them or suppressing something. But he didn't appear hostile anymore. Just confused. So I kept my distance and waited for him to speak.

"I have to go," he finally decided.

"You can stay here," I told him. "I have an extra room, and you can take a shower."

"I can't." He stood up and walked toward the hallway. I hurried to keep up with him.

"Will you promise me that you'll come back?" I questioned. He paused by the kitchen archway and turned around to face him, but he kept his eyes on the walls again. He looked at everything but me.

"I'll come back when the sutures are healed. I don't know how to remove them," he said. I nodded.

"I can work with that."

"I have to go."

He turned and opened the back door as if he already knew my house from back to front. The truth was, I wasn't surprised. This probably wasn't the first (or second) time he'd been in there. He disappeared into the yard and left the door opened. I followed him out into the growing darkness, but when I reached the yard, there was nothing there. The neighbor's porch light didn't come on, and I had no idea where he'd disappeared to. So I shut the door and decided against turning the lock. I wanted him to know he was welcome to come back.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky returned to my house a few days later just like he promised. He had left quickly the last time, but luckily he actually followed through. This time, I walked into the kitchen after walking Steve out and found him sitting at the kitchen table. He'd already pulled his jacket off and was picking at the stitches on his arm. The brace was still on his wrist, and his long legs were stretched out across the floor. He looked almost relaxed and comfortable, yet positioned so that he could spring into action if he needed to. His dirty hair was still stuffed under the cap but it was messy, and his face was grimy.

"Jesus, you scared me," I said, clutching my pounding heart. He looked up at me and didn't answer for a long moment. Then something seemed to click, and he realized he was supposed to respond.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to hear him kiss you." Then he turned back to his stitches and held his arm out. "I think they're infected."

"According to Steve, that's impossible," I said. I pulled another chair to his side and took his arm into my hands so I could examine the sutures. "Steve told me you can't get infections. It's probably just dirty and irritated. When was the last time you took a shower?" I looked up, but he didn't answer. That explained a lot. I went back to the stitches. "I'll go ahead and cut them out and then you can take a shower. I have some ointment I can use that will keep the dirt out and help with the irritation. When was the last time you ate something real?" He still didn't answer, so I let go of a slow breath. "I'll make you something to eat while you shower? How does that sound?"

He still had no answer for me, but I guessed that he hadn't been offered either of those privileges in a long time. I figured HYDRA probably only fed him and bathed him out of necessity. He still had to eat to survive, right? From what Steve told me, it was like they didn't even view Bucky as a human. So he probably hadn't eaten anything but gruel for nutrients in seventy-odd years.

I stood up and went to locate the first aid kit. Then I returned to my seat beside him.

"They might pull a bit, but it won't hurt nearly as bad as when they were going in, okay?" I warned him. He just nodded and watched me get to work. Within a few minutes, all of the sutures were out, and I ran my fingers over the scarring, scabbed skin. "I think this will heal nicely. It might scar for a while, but—Steve said even those fade quickly. How did it happen? Can I ask that again? You never actually told me." I looked up at him, and he seemed to have grown more comfortable with eye contact since the last time I saw him. He was already watching me, though his eyes were narrowed.

"They cornered me in an alley and told me to give them money. I didn't have any. They had a knife," he explained.

"But you didn't kill them?"

"I wanted to, but I didn't." I smiled.

"You didn't mess them up too bad, did you?" He seemed to study my smile with that same confused expression before nodding.

"They'll live to mug again."

"How's your wrist?"

"Better."

"Any swelling or bruising?"

"No."

"I want you to keep wearing the brace for at least the rest of the month. I know you heal quickly, but since I couldn't get an x-ray, I want to be sure it's healing properly."

"Okay."

"Alright, follow me and I'll show you to the bathroom."

He stood up and followed after me quietly. I didn't look back until I reached the upstairs closet. I wanted him to believe that I felt safe in his presence. I couldn't hear him at first, and part of me wondered if he'd slipped away now that he'd gotten what he came for. But when we reached the top floor I heard him reach out and touch his hands to the wall. At first, I thought it was just to balance himself, but I didn't think he had any problems with that since the limp went away. But then I realized he was just doing it to let me know he was still there. Like how Steve sometimes walked a little more loudly so he didn't accidentally sneak up on me. Mostly because it happened more than once and usually resulted in me jumping in momentary fear. I also cussed a lot.

I got a few things out of the hall closet and showed him to the bathroom. I got the door opened and the light on and let him in.

"I'll try to find you some clothes while you're busy," I told him. "They'll have to do until I can get these washed for you. And I have a spare bedroom—in case you need a place to sleep." I glanced at him, but he still didn't have an answer for me. So I walked him through how to use the shower and where to find what he'd need. I actually managed to find a brand new toothbrush just because I bought them in packs. And I found a comb tucked into the back of a drawer. So I set it out and turned back around to face him. He'd been watching me quietly through my walk-through and hadn't said a single word. He looked out of place in my bathroom.

"You'll probably want to shave too. Steve left his razor in the downstairs bathroom if you want to use it. I don't think he'll mind. I'll go see if I can find you some clothes and I'll leave them on the counter for you. Then I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Also, take the brace off but be careful with your wrist."

I turned to leave the bathroom, and I could see him watch me go through the mirror. He spoke when I reached the hallway and turned back to shut the door.

"Thank you," he murmured. He'd said it once before, but it didn't sound as genuine the first time. The words seemed foreign on his lips. Like he wasn't used to the conventional politeness society would expect of him. I was also pretty sure he didn't have a lot to be thankful for anymore. So I took it as an attempt at normality and it made me smile to see him trying.

"You're welcome, Bucky," I said. Then I shut the door to leave him alone.


	13. Chapter 13

Since Steve was over at my house so often, it was normal for him to leave a few things behind. Though he hadn't actually left anything there until Romanoff made the suggestion to allude to our comfort with each other. But I didn't think he left any clothes he actually cared about. I knew Bucky was a bit shorter and leaner than him, but I also figured it was better than the clothes he currently had. So I found a few of Steve's things and carried them back across the hall to the bathroom. I could hear the shower running, but I knocked on the door anyway.

"Bucky? Are you covered? I'm going to get your clothes and leave clean ones, okay?" I asked through the door.

"Okay," his voice responded from inside. I was almost surprised he didn't try to sneak away.

So I popped the door open and made a quick check that he was behind the shower curtain. His clothes were lying in a pile on the floor. I put Steve's clean clothes on the counter and knelt down to get his dirty ones. Then the shower curtain ripped open, and I shouted, "Oh!" before quickly turning around to face the wall.

"I don't know how to wash my arm," he said from behind me.

"The stitches or the metal?"

"Metal."

"Um—okay—how did they clean it before?"

"I don't remember."

"Okay, well just—do your best not to get it too wet—and I'll try to help you dry it out when you're done. If there are any problems, I might know someone who could give us some advice. How does that sound?"

"Fine."

"Okay. And nudity, Bucky. That's not—you know—something we typically show off to one another. Unless asked."

"Right." The curtain closed, and I ducked my head and left the bathroom. I was trying not to laugh because I didn't want to offend him. But my cheeks were hot, and a giggle snuck out before I made it to the staircase.

When I got back downstairs, I got his laundry in the washer. Then I went through the kitchen cupboards to see if I could find something to make for dinner. Despite my mother's insistence that I was instinctively maternal and would amount to nothing beyond caring for a family, cooking wasn't really my strongest skill. My mom had always been very traditional, and that's probably why I took her prediction about my future so defensively.

Clara and I were what was considered "miracle babies." More specifically me. Our parents hadn't met until they were passed thirty and they had trouble conceiving. Clara was actually the "miracle baby." I was the "where the hell did this one come from" baby. Being that our parents were so much older than other kids' parents growing up, they also had a different set of values. Our mom stayed home, didn't drive, and spent the entirety of her day cooped up at home cleaning or cooking.

I never wanted to be like my mother. I loved her dearly, but when she told me that I was meant for staying home, popping out kids, and baking cookies I felt incompetent and worthless. My mother enjoyed her lifestyle, and it worked for her. It brought her happiness. And I respected that choice, but that definitely wasn't the kind of life I'd wanted for myself. My mother had done 100% of the cooking except for the rare occasions that my dad barbecued. But because my mom did all the cooking, Clara and me never actually learned. Not that our mom didn't insist that we couldn't survive without learning basic cooking skills, just that we usually hit the road running whenever we caught wind of one of her impending lessons.

I wasn't entirely useless, though. I mean, I could open packages, and I could boil water. I could follow easy recipes when I wanted to. I knew how to make spaghetti and scrambled eggs from being in the military. I practically lived off of homemade waffles. But I only ever had to cook for one person. And whenever Steve was over we usually just ordered take-out. The rest of the week I survived off of frozen dinners, waffles, or whatever I brought home from the diner. I decided that Bucky probably hadn't had pizza in a long time, and that was the most delicious thing I could think of that didn't require my mediocre cooking skills.

So I ordered a pizza and sat down at the kitchen table to clean up the mess I'd made when I removed Bucky's sutures. A few minutes later, I heard the shower shut off, and I waited patiently for him to come back down the stairs. I didn't hear him moving at all at first, but then I heard him briefly touch the wall in the hallway again as he let me know he was coming. He appeared in the shadowy archway wearing Steve's clothes and holding my comb in two broken pieces.

"I broke it," he said as he held it out on his exposed metal hand.

"Oh my gosh," I replied as I stood. I took the comb and tossed it into the trash. "Do you want me to help with…" I motioned toward his wet matted hair, and he nodded once.

"Please?"

"I'll go get a few things. Make yourself at home. I ordered a pizza." I left the room and went back upstairs to get my brush and a few more things. I found him sitting at the table when I returned. He was flexing his metal arm and trying to stretch it.

"How does it look? Should I call my friend?" I asked.

"I think it's fine," he replied. He put the wrist brace back on his other arm. That one was looking better too.

I moved around to his back and looked at his tangled dark hair. It was long enough so that it brushed his shoulders but it was clear it hadn't been washed or combed in a long time. It was a good thing I invested in detangling spray, or we'd be there for a while. I sprayed it down, and he flinched.

"You're not going to make me as pretty as you, are you?" he asked. I froze with the bottle still raised in my hand. I expected the short answers, confusion, and detached stares. I even expected anger. But I didn't expect a flirty comment. I set the bottle back down and reached for the brush.

"Steve told me you were a bit of a flirt," I said to him as I worked on combing through the mess. He held still and didn't show any indication that I was causing him pain.

"I don't remember," he replied.

"Maybe it's just in your nature. Do you remember anything else besides falling from the train?"

"I remember one thing." He hesitated to continue.

"What's that?" I prodded.

"A woman. I don't remember her name. Just that she was like you. Kind."

"What do you remember about her?"

"I took her out. We drove—to a pier. I told her I was leaving. She said she'd wait for me." I brushed through the tangles and felt another heaviness in my chest. She probably had waited. I wondered how long she waited before giving up on him.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky," I said.

"You have no reason to be sorry for me," he muttered.

"Do you remember anything else?"

"Broken pieces. Like you said. Some things are starting to become clearer. The train. The others. Commandos."

"You remember the Commandos?"

"I remember a few things."

"Do you think it's because you're free now? Do you think that's why you're beginning to remember?"

"I think I always did after a while. And then they would…" He stopped, and I kept brushing.

"Did it hurt?" I asked him after a while.

"Yes," he replied.

"Do you think your memories will come back eventually?"

"I don't know if I want them to. What about yours? Did they come back for you too?" I paused for a second before running my fingers through his hair and securing it into another ponytail. One that wouldn't rip his hair out like a bare rubberband.

"Um," I finally managed to get out. "I don't know. I don't know how it works. Like—memories sometimes just get pushed aside. But I don't think they ever go away. But I—I forgot my name sometimes at first. I feel like there are still pieces missing that I just can't grasp. Like there's a screen over where memories should be. They exist. I just can't reach them. I couldn't even remember what my family looked like until I got home. Sometimes my sister will tell me stories about the things we did as kids, and I have no idea what she's talking about. I can see that it hurts her. That's one of the reasons I moved so far away from them. The worst part isn't really the memories, though, it's the nightmares."

"I know." I got the ponytail tied off and stepped away from him. I gathered my things and tried not to look at him. "I'm done. Let me get something on that cut and then you can shave."

"Okay."

I returned my supplies to the upstairs bathroom and then came back to find an ointment for his cut. He was waiting right where I'd left him, so I took a seat on the extra chair and gently applied it to his arm. Neither of us spoke, and I could see him watching me. When I finished, I gave him another smile.

"You can shave now if you want," I said as I motioned toward the downstairs bathroom across the hall. "You do know how to do that, right? I mean, your wrist isn't going to cause a problem?"

He stood slowly and didn't answer my question right away. He appeared a lot larger in Steve's brighter and cleaner clothes. Steve never seemed to wear shirts that fit, but it fit Bucky nicely. His arms were bare, and I could see the shape of his muscles and the incredible craftsmanship of the metal one. It acted nearly as realistic as the other one. Aside from his inability to judge his own strength. But I suppose that was the purpose of it. To destroy.

He was also taller than I initially thought, but I suppose that was the reason why he stuck with wearing so many dark colors. He could hide in it and disappear into the shadows easier. But now he wore a blue t-shirt with khaki pants. He seemed almost average and uncomfortable. With his hair pulled out of his face and cleaned, he no longer looked like I'd picked him up off of the street. I still wanted to see what he looked like without the beard, though. It wasn't that I didn't like the beard. I just wanted to see more of Sergeant James Barnes.

"I think I'll manage," he finally decided.

I headed into the living room to wait for the pizza as he finished. The pizza came first. I was bringing it into the kitchen as Bucky left the bathroom, clean shaven and a lot more handsome and youthful than he'd looked before.

"Pizza," I said, lifting the box and showing him since he still seemed uncertain about the delivery guy. I sat it down on the table and went to get dishes. Bucky took the seat with his back to the wall. He examined the box but didn't speak or move. I sat the plates down on the table and looked down at him.

"I didn't know your eyes were blue," I noted. They met mine, and his expression went curious. As if he hadn't realized they were blue either.

"Is flirting in your nature too?" he asked. His expression was stoic, but I felt my face blush again anyway. I looked down at my feet.

"I'm just making an observation. You've been hiding your eyes since you got here. I couldn't tell."

"You don't hide your eyes. They're black." I focused my attention on opening the box so I didn't have to look at him.

"Brown actually," I informed him. "You've just never seen me in sunlight."

"I think I'd like to." I kept quiet as I put a slice of pizza onto his plate and slid it over to him. I still didn't look at him.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked, but I regretted asking it as soon as the words left my mouth. He was probably only ever allowed water. Something necessary for survival. "How about soda? I think I still have some left in the fridge. Steve doesn't like it. He says it's not 'proper soda pop unless it's made with real sugar." I mocked his voice, and the corner of Bucky's lip twitched into an almost smile.

I took that as my answer and went to get it. When I was done, I sat a glass down at the table and took my place again. He had his back to the wall in my usual spot. He hadn't picked up his pizza or his drink. He hadn't said a word as he watched me shuffle around the kitchen for glasses and soda.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. He was still watching me, looking curious and confused all at once.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" he finally questioned.

"Why wouldn't I be kind to you?"

"I have a hard time trusting people who are kind to me."

For a moment, I was almost offended. Especially since he waited so long to tell me he thought my kindness was threatening. Maybe I was overdoing it. Maybe he didn't really mean what he'd said about wanting to see my eyes in the sunlight. But then I realized it was probably because HYDRA had been nice to him on occasion. To make him feel like he was safe, and they were doing it in his best interest. It was a common abuse tactic, and that's what Bucky looked like to me. An abuse survivor. For a moment, a very brief one, I considered telling him who I really was. Even if it was just to gain his trust. But it was just hard to lie to someone who'd been abused for so long.

I took a deep breath and held my tongue.

"I think that's a risk you're going to have to take, Bucky," I said, reaching for my soda. He held his glass in his right hand as he watched me behind narrowed blue eyes.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see," he replied. He lifted the glass toward his lips, and I raised mine in a gesture of cheers.

"To kindness and trust, I guess," I said. There was another almost smile, but he brought the soda to his lips and finally took a sip. The look on his face made me think he knew damn well I was lying to him.


	14. Chapter 14

After dinner, Bucky helped me carry our plates to the sink. He stood up, balancing his plate and cup as he reached for mine. But then a plate slid from his metal hand and smashed against the floor. His eyes immediately cut to mine. I wasn't sure what to make of his expression. Either he needed reassurance that he hadn't done anything wrong, or he was just angry at himself for dropping the plate at all.

"It's alright," I said as I jumped up to get the broom. "I'll clean it up."

"I can do it," he said.

He put the remaining dishes in the sink and then bent down to scoop up the larger shards of broken ceramic. He kept his metal hand on the floor to balance himself as he collected them, but the arm was shaking and since it wasn't flesh and blood I didn't think it was trembling out of adrenaline or fear when the rest of him wasn't. There was something wrong with the arm, but he apparently didn't want me to know it. So I helped him clean up the pieces of broken glass and didn't say anything about it.

"I'll wash, you put them away?" I suggested once we got everything cleaned up.

"Okay," he replied in his usual one-liner.

He stood at my side as I washed the few dishes we'd used. Then I dried them off and handed them over to him. I showed him where they were supposed to go, and he kept his left hand at his side as the other one slid them into place. Occasionally I caught him bending his elbow and flexing his fist.

We were washing the last cup when I heard Steve's motorcycle rumble down the street. I saw him tense, and he looked down at me. His eyes darkened. His jaw went tight. His hair had dried, and dark tendrils had fallen into his face. He looked almost exactly like the man in the pictures now. But a little older. But not that he'd aged in the last seventy something years. Just that there was a weariness in his eyes that I couldn't see in the picture in his file.

"Stay," I murmured. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, but then slowly put the last cup back into the cupboard.

"What will you do if I hurt him?" he asked.

"I won't let you," I promised. I knew I couldn't physically prevent him from doing anything, but I hoped he understood that I was trying to offer him emotional support. He stared down at me until the engine stopped out front of the house. "Let me talk to him first," I suggested. "Just promise me that you won't leave."

He said nothing, but I patted his arm and walked out to the living room, so I could greet Steve at the door. I wanted to prepare him and give them both a minute to adjust before seeing each other again. I heard the lock click, and the front door opened. He stepped into the room and looked right at me.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," he said. He always said that even if it was only nine at night. "I just came by to pick up a few things." He glanced at my twisted fingers and concerned expression. His eyes moved to mine, and I nodded.

"He's in the kitchen," I whispered. The door shut, and he stood ridged. "I convinced him to stay long enough to shower and eat. I let him borrow some of your clothes and your razor. I didn't think you'd mind. Just—be gentle with him. And—be careful. He's still afraid that he's going to hurt you." He kept his eyes on mine, but his entire body appeared anxious. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he wasn't even breathing.

I reached out for his hand, and he let me take it. I pulled him back toward the hallway and his feet responded. He followed after me, but I still couldn't hear him breathing. However, when we reached the kitchen, it was empty. The window above the sink was open, and I hadn't even heard him escape. I figured he'd left in a hurry. He probably panicked. So I dropped my hands to my sides and sighed heavily.

"I guess he wasn't ready," I said. Steve seemed to relax.

"I don't know if he'll ever be ready," he told me. I turned around to face him.

"There's leftover pizza if you want some. I'll just get his clothes in the dryer and then I'm going to bed." He nodded slowly and watched me as I went to furiously stuff Bucky's wet clothes into the dryer.

"I thought you didn't do laundry," he remarked once I got the machine on. I moved passed him.

"It's different," I decided. I hurried up the stairs to my room and then stood at the window for a long time staring into my darkened backyard.

I knew it was probably crazy. I hardly knew the guy, and he didn't even know himself. But I wanted him to stick around. I wanted him to mend things with Steve and go back to the guy he always talked about. The one he called a "little shit" and said had an easy smile and sarcastic nature. The man who was the brother and friend that Steve still needed. With a flirtatious attitude and a bounce in his step.

I understood why everyone always made recovery out to be so easy. They said I'd be normal again and made it seem like it was a real possibility for me. It wasn't because they actually believed that, but because they wanted to. I wanted Bucky to get better and to be able to live and function again. But I wasn't sure if I really believed it was possible or if I just wanted to prove that if someone like him could do it, maybe I could too.

I knew enough about trauma to know that even if he did remember who he was, he would never be the same. And neither would I.


	15. Chapter 15

I knew I was in a nightmare the moment I saw him. When I stood there among the rubble and broken bodies. All I could hear was the screaming and faded ringing in my ears. I could feel the heat of fire and prickles of burns across my face. For a brief moment, I forgot that I was home and safe in my bed.

Until the smoke parted, and the screaming stopped. All I could see was the man with the dark, emotionless eyes and an arm made of exposed metal. He walked with measured and confident steps. He knew where to go, and he had no reason to run. I was his mission now.

Steve told me all he could about what happened over the skies of DC. About how Bucky had been instructed to kill him. He believed that this was the mission that caused the Winter Soldier's unraveling. But he didn't look like that man as he marched across the courtyard and right toward me. This wasn't the man who ate pizza in my kitchen or expressed his fears and concerns in my simple little living room. This was the killer I'd been warned about. The Winter Soldier. The ghost.

He stopped just before me and lifted his rifle. He could have shot me from afar and been done with the mission all at once. But he wanted me to see his face before he pulled the trigger, to know. Or maybe he just wanted me to know that his mission would always be more important than me.

Or it was a test. He wanted me to pull my trigger first. I had my rifle against my chest, ready to be used. But I couldn't bring myself to raise it. It didn't matter to me that my life was in danger or if he was a perfect stranger. I couldn't kill him. And it didn't matter how real it all felt and seemed; I knew I was dreaming. And he wasn't a stranger to me anymore. He was Bucky. I didn't know him very well, and I knew his mind was fragmented and broken, but I could see his desire to be free from that. To be anything other than what they created him to be.

The man in front of me had no intention of being anything other than that monster. His eyes were as cold as ice and the mouth that was born to smile was set in a firm straight line. He wanted me to shoot, or to shoot me first. I couldn't decide which, but I stood straight and looked right into his eyes.

"I won't shoot you, Bucky," I said.

Then he snarled and lifted the gun so that the barrel pointed at the scar on my shoulder. He pulled the trigger, and I jumped up to shout. My shoulder ached with pain and I rubbed my hand over the warped skin. I counted my heartbeat. One, two. Three, four.

I was at home in my bed. My room was dark and shaded, but empty. Steve had decided against going home. He thought I might like the company. But he wasn't there anymore. I hissed and rubbed the pain from my shoulder and then stood to my feet. My house was quiet, and the bedroom door was open. The hall was black. I stepped out and called his name.

"Steve?"

There was no response. He hardly slept and even if he was on the couch he would have heard me call out to him. I was certain my shout alone was loud enough to wake him if he'd fallen asleep.

I crept to the end of the staircase and looked down into the abyss of black that was supposed to be my living room. There was a nervous twinge in the pit of my stomach. Steve had come to bed with me, didn't he? Or did I dream that too? Sometimes it was hard to make sense of things so soon after those dreams. I couldn't remember what was real and what wasn't.

I headed down the stairs and hit the light switch at the bottom of the staircase. A lamp in the corner of the room illuminated the space, but the living room was devoid of life. It didn't look like anyone had slept on the couch. The quilt Romanoff's team left behind was still folded neatly in its place. I turned down the hall toward the kitchen and finally spotted him. The back door was open, but the screen was closed. I could see the silhouette of his body against my neighbor's porch light.

I opened the screen and stepped out into the chilly night air. I took a seat on the porch beside him and crossed my arms to fight off the cold.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

"Same as always," I replied. "But I saw him this time. What about you? Doesn't look like you even tried."

"Couldn't sleep. Something tripped the light. I know it was probably a cat or the raccoon. But—I came out here anyway. Sometimes I come out here when you're asleep. Maybe I'm just hoping he's listening."

"Do you think you'll ever get him back?" He took a moment to answer as he breathed in and out slowly. The condensation turned to fog in the cold air. Then he moved his arm and wrapped it around me so I could steal his warmth. I rested my head on his shoulder and felt my heartbeat slow to relax.

"No," he finally said. "But you might."

"Does it bother you that he came to me first?"

"No, I just want to know that he's safe. And I think you're the right person for the job."

"You finally trust me," I whispered, just in case someone actually was listening.

"Yeah, I do."

"Thank you for being here, Steve. I know that—I'm not the person you want to be here with, but I appreciate it anyway." He turned and planted a kiss on the side of my head. It didn't feel like one of his forced PDA kisses. It felt like it was actually meant for me, and not because he had romantic feelings for me, but maybe because he finally considered me a friend. I couldn't remember the last time I had a real friend.


	16. Chapter 16

I was hoping that Bucky would come back soon. But after that night, I didn't see him again for a while. Every time Steve left, or I got home from work, I walked back into my house feeling disappointed that there was no one there waiting for me in the shadows. Every time something tripped the sensor light in my neighbor's yard, I went to the window just hoping that it might be him. It wasn't.

Steve rarely slept in my bed anymore. I knew it made him uncomfortable from the start, but after that first night, he would doze for a while and then I would wake up to find him sitting out on the back porch waiting for the shadows to move. Sometimes I joined him. Sometimes I brought him the quilt from the couch. Most of the time I left him alone with his own thoughts.

I woke up one night to the soft murmur of his voice from the backyard. I wondered if he was on the phone but when I went downstairs to check on him, he wasn't sitting in his usual spot on the steps. I approached the screen and looked out into the yard. He was standing in the middle of the overgrown grass. Bucky was standing before him, though several feet away. He was wearing his clothes again. I must have forgotten to take them out of the dryer. Which meant he came back for them and I never even noticed.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I was glad that he was back. I was even happier that he'd finally decided to talk to Steve. But they stood so far apart, and their body language suggested both of them were ready to bolt or fight if the other made the move. Neither of them did, but they didn't seem very comfortable with each other.

I couldn't really make out what they were saying. They were speaking in low voices so that only a few words managed to find their way over to me. The only thing I understood for sure, was Bucky telling Steve he didn't think he could ever "be" Bucky again.

I knew it wasn't my place to get involved in their conversation. They were long overdue for a talk, and they needed to be alone, but this was something that got under my skin. Steve was Steve despite everything he'd gone through. He had never lost sight of himself. I knew what it was like to feel like you didn't belong to your own name. I knew what it was like to look back at yourself and how you used to be and feel detached from that person. Steve had gone through things that I would never be able to understand, and that gave him a connection to Bucky that I would never reach. But that self-detachment and lack of hope. That was what Bucky was going through now, and I don't think Steve really got it.

So I pushed the screen opened and stepped out into the yard. Both men turned to watch me as I approached.

"Hey," I started. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just came out here to check on you. And I know it's wrong, and your business is between the two of you, but I couldn't stop myself from interjecting."

I looked up at Bucky. He still had his hair in a ponytail, but his cap was gone. Even though he was messy and dirty again, it looked like he'd at least tried recently. Like he'd run his fingers through his hair and splashed water on his face. His facial hair was growing back in and left a dark shadow on his jaw.

"Look," I said. "I know that you feel—disconnected. From your past and from the whole world. And I know that you want him back, Steve. But that Bucky isn't coming back. Just like that Steve isn't coming back. And you may still be that Steve, but you're not the same kid from Brooklyn, right? That's the whole point of living, though. We change. And Bucky—if you want to be Bucky, that's great. You're at a crossroads now, and you can be whoever you want to be. Bucky or the Winter Soldier, or someone entirely new. That choice is yours. But no matter what, those names are still going to belong to you and be part of you. And you still have to choose how you want to live your life from this point on. You're free now, and you can be who you want to be."

He looked across the yard and Steve kept his eyes on his friend. I didn't want him to think that he had to be Bucky if that's not who he was anymore. I knew when I came back that I didn't want to be Johanna anymore. At least not the one who'd left Ohio with blind optimism and a thirst for adventure. I couldn't be her anymore, even if I wanted to. Coming to that realization was an important part of the recovery process. Even though I didn't quite have a grasp on it yet.

"Bucky has people who love him," I continued since neither of them had spoken. I pulled my sweater around my arms to keep the chill out, but I kept my eyes on Bucky. "He doesn't have to be alone if he doesn't want to be. And if you decide you don't want to be Bucky—you don't have to. You can try to forget the past if that's what you want. But I know from experience that it doesn't go away. You can fight it, and you can move away from the people who care about you and pretend to be something you're not. But Bucky will always be part of you and so will the Winter Soldier. And so will Steve. And me if you let me." There was a moment of silence as he looked down at the grass and then back at me.

"They're going to come looking for me," he said. "Whatever's left of them. They're not going to let me go so easy. And if they don't get to me first—someone else will. There's no life for me in this world. Not like the life you have." I bit my lip and nodded.

"Yeah, I know. But you have a family. And Steve will do whatever he can to protect you. Even if you think, you don't need it. Steve and me and—my friends. If you want to start your life over as some boringly average person, we can help make that happen. Whatever choice you make, we can help you."

"How did you do it?" he asked me. "How did you decide who to be?" I took a deep breath and shuffled my bare feet in the cold, damp grass.

"I ran away. I thought I was hurting the people who loved me, but—I miss them. And I'm lonely. And it wasn't until I was gone that I realized they were the only ones who could help me, and I hurt them more by leaving. When I'm with the people I love—I feel like I can be me again. Even if I'm not the same person I was before."

"What if that isn't an option? What if being with the people you're told you love isn't an option?"

I stood staring at him as I tried to figure out how to answer his question. The crickets were loud, and the sky was hazy with dull light pollution and low lying clouds. I wanted to ask him why it wasn't an option for him, but I wasn't exactly sure about what he meant. I didn't know if he was referring to Steve or HYDRA or whoever he'd left behind in his past. I couldn't answer.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I guess you just have to do whatever you can to be the best version of yourself. Be true to yourself. Even if it's not what other people want."

He reached out and pressed the palm of his hand against my cheek like I had done to him that night on my couch. The metal was freezing cold against my skin, but I leaned into it anyway. He'd been a weapon who had been broken and betrayed, but I could still see that there was warmth in his heart. I wanted him to see that in himself. Even if he wasn't Bucky anymore.

"Then I have to go," he murmured.

"Please don't leave? We can help you. You can have a home." He gave me a conflicted and pained expression but stepped away. He cast one last glance at Steve before jumping over the fence that separated my yard from my neighbors. Their porch light came back on, but I couldn't hear anything except crickets and the wind. Steve moved to my side, but neither of us spoke until the light went off and the yard flooded with darkness again.

"Do you think he'll be back?" I asked him.

"I don't know," he replied.

I turned and headed back toward the house. I made it all the way to my bedroom before the heaviness in my chest became overwhelming. I sat down on my bed and faced the dark window. My eyes felt hot, and I almost wanted to cry. I hated crying. I hated this job. I wanted my life to go back to normal. Not my normal, though, I guess. Not nightmares and loneliness and filing paperwork in a boring office.

I wanted to go home to Ohio to my bedroom with the silly posters and my sister's irritating organization system. Where summers were warm, and I could sleep without fear, and people weren't suffering so much. I wanted to go back to the time when I didn't have to count my heartbeats to do routine tasks. When I didn't have to remind myself of the difference between real and not real.

I just wanted to start over.

I heard the floor creak, and I knew that Steve had followed me upstairs. He probably knew I was upset too, but I wiped the moisture away from my eyes before he could see them. I hated crying in front of people more than I hated crying itself.

"I don't want this mission to be over, Steve," I told him, despite how badly I wanted to go home to my mom and dad. "I don't want to fail."

"I don't think we failed at all, Jo," he told me. "We did exactly what I set out to do. We made contact. And to be completely honest, I think it worked out far better than I expected. He's not himself, and you're right. Maybe he never will be. But he wants to be a good person. He left because you told him to be the best version of himself even if it wasn't what others wanted. He thinks this is what's best for us."

"How would that be good for us? I told him I wanted him here."

"He thinks you're my girlfriend, Jo."

"So?" I turned around to face him. He was standing in my doorway leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyebrows rose, and he smirked like I was missing something very obvious and important.

"You really didn't notice?" he asked. I shook my head.

"I'm just helping him. I just want to help. It's not like that."

"Maybe not for you." I turned back around and ran my hands over my face.

"It can't be like that. We barely talk. He doesn't know anything about me."

"He doesn't have to. But I know Bucky better than anyone. And you're the first person to show him any genuine kindness in a very long time. Buck was always a bit of a flirt. Maybe that part of him is still there, even if he doesn't know what it means. And I mean—I'm not surprised. I knew from the start that you were more his type than mine." I leaned on my elbows and looked at the tree shadows on the window.

"If that's the case then we really messed up. That wasn't part of the plan."

"We didn't mess up. We'll stick to our plan. If he doesn't come back within a month, we'll move on. Just like we agreed."

"I just don't want him to get hurt."

"I don't either."


	17. Chapter 17

The next morning Steve and I had coffee together in my kitchen. We hadn't spoken since the night before, and my lack of nightmares kept us apart for the rest of the night. I woke up to find him gone. He'd apparently slept on the couch and was already showered and getting the coffee started by the time I wandered down. So we served ourselves, and I stood against the counter as he sat at the table.

"I forgot to tell you I have something for you," he said as he pulled out his wallet. He took out a piece of paper and slid it across the table in my direction. I stepped forward and lifted it. It was a check.

"I can't take this," I said, setting it back down on the table.

"Why not? I agreed to make up the difference."

"Because I don't want it."

"How are you going to pay your mortgage?"

"I'll find a way." I turned and dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink. If the diner was good for anything, it was that coffee was flowing all day long.

"Why?" he asked as I reached for my phone and slid it into my back pocket.

"I'm not doing this for you anymore. Or for money. I'm doing this for him."

Then I left without another word and drove to start my shift at the diner.

The morning was uneventful. The breakfast shift was my favorite to work because most of the customers were quiet. The majority of them were there for coffee or simple meals and they didn't fuss as much. The only issues I ever had were from bright-eyed children or moody elderly people. It was lunch and dinner that I couldn't stand, but thankfully I wasn't on the dinner shift. However, lunch was the favorite time of day for those damned milkshakes, and it was hard to find a moment to sit down.

I was in the middle of refilling some salt and pepper containers when Morgan/Megan alerted me to another guest visit. She found me at a back table and groaned as she sat in the chair.

"Your hot friend is back," she said.

"Wilson?" I questioned. She shrugged.

"You never told me his name. But he wanted to talk to you and asked for a peanut butter cup shake." I almost cried, but she just smiled. "I'm just kidding. He asked me for a Coke. You want me to get it?"

"Yeah, sure. And bring some fries too. He likes them even though he doesn't ask." She stood and took the refill bottles from me.

"You ever going to tell me his name, or is it just Wilson?"

"Sam," I told her. She nodded and glanced over her shoulder at where Sam was leaning against the bar, poking at a jukebox selector.

"He's cute. Is he your occasional guy friend?"

"No. Different guy is the occasional guy."

I moved passed her and told my manager I was going on my break. Morgan/Megan took the salt and pepper refills back for me, and I went to get his soda. When I came back out from the kitchen, he was already waiting for me in the back booth with his arm stretched out over the seat and his eyes on the customers. I set the drink on the table and sat down in front of him. I was so thankful for the reason to be off of my feet that I could have hugged him.

"What's up?" I asked. He removed the straw wrapper and focused on that for a moment.

"Haven't talked to you in a while. Figured it was a good time to see how you were doing," he told me.

"What's to talk about? Doesn't Steve tell you everything? Or is there more I need to know?" He stuck the straw in his drink and finally looked at me.

"I didn't come here on behalf of Steve. I came for you. To apologize." I shook my head. I didn't understand what he'd have to apologize for.

"For what?"

"For what I said the last time I was here. When I called Barnes a nutcase."

"I don't even remember." He took a sip of his drink and scanned the room again.

"It was unprofessional and uncalled for. I deal with this stuff a lot, and I should have figured it out when we met. You were right about Barnes. Or at least, I think you're right for wanting to help him. The both of you. Being alone is the worst part, and he's making progress because he's not alone. But you—you're still alone. And I'd like to change that."

"What do you mean?" He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. Then he slid it on the table between us. I reached out to take it.

"I'm a coach, of sorts," he told me. "For soldiers. Like you." I nodded slowly.

"Did you read my files?" I questioned. He smiled.

"Didn't have to. I can see it. Not to mention, Steve might have said a few things that tipped me off."

"Right. He told you I said I was lonely."

"More than that."

"I think I'm alright, considering. I had a therapist. Of course, she turned out to be HYDRA but…"

"That's not really what this is, though. I'm not trying to preach therapy to you, although I do see the benefits in that when they're not HYDRA. I just want you to know that you're not alone in what you're dealing with. There are people just like you who would love to meet you and talk to you. You don't even have to tell anyone what you've been through, but sometimes you just need that other person who understands in order to move forward."

"How did you do it? How did you come home and—go back to normal? How were you able to get a job and help Captain America take on HYDRA?" He looked around to be sure no one was listening.

"I wish that I could say I went back to normal, but I'd be lying. And when I helped Steve, I felt alive again. I know that there's an emptiness in you for what you've done or what you think you did. I know that you froze and couldn't pull the trigger, and you got shot. But I also know that you didn't hesitate when someone else's life was on the line." I shook my head.

"Those kids wouldn't have died if I'd pulled the trigger." I felt my voice catch in my throat, and I pinched my mouth shut to stop myself from bursting with emotion. He was patient and shook his head softly.

"You know that's not true," he told me. "You beat yourself up, and you plant lies in your own head to feed your guilt. Those kids—I wish I could say that there was a magical solution or something that anyone could have done to save them. But there wasn't. They didn't die because one soldier out of twenty froze. And the man who shot you—taking him out wouldn't have made a difference. There were more of them than there was of you. You did what you had to do when it mattered the most. You couldn't pull the trigger, but you put your own life on the line to save a Colonel. You didn't shoot, but you didn't freeze when his life was on the line. The problem isn't that you freeze. The problem is that you value the lives of others before your own."

I turned my head away from him and wiped my eyes. I knew he was looking, but I hoped that he didn't notice it. I guess I was just making more lies for myself because it was his job to notice when people weren't right or when they couldn't get their lives back.

Luckily, Morgan/Megan decided that was the perfect time to bring the fries I'd asked for. She came up to the table smiling her practiced smile and set the basket down between us.

"Is there anything else I can get you, hon?" she asked as she put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. He gave her a smile and shook his head.

"I'm great. Thank you," he told her. She looked at me, and even though she was smiling there was a clear question in her eyes.

"What about you?" she asked, and I didn't think she was asking if I wanted anything to eat. She wanted to know if I was okay or needed help. I shook my head.

"No, I'm fine," I assured her.

"Let me know if you need anything. At all."

"I will." She walked off and Sam waited for her to leave, which gave me enough time to regain composure.

"Look," he said as he reached for a french-fry. "I know what it's like to come home and feel like you've left a piece of yourself on the battlefield. No matter what happens and no matter how much you might have hated it, that part of you will stay where you left it. That's why I helped Steve when he came to me. It made me feel like I had a purpose again. That's why Steve does what he does."

"I don't want to go back to that life. I don't ever want to watch someone die again," I argued.

"Neither do I, and that's why I did it. To stop people from dying." I looked away. "And so you can't pull a trigger. That's fine. Agent Barton doesn't use a gun. Most of the time." He munched on some fries as I thought about this. "Maybe your pink knife can be your bow and arrow. Pink sparkle knife is your Project Falcon." I laughed and rubbed my eyes.

"I just want to be normal, Sam," I told him. He nodded slowly as he watched me.

"That's fine too, but that isn't the case for all of us. Some of us thrive on it. Me, Steve, Natasha. Maybe normalcy isn't what Barnes wants. Maybe it's not an option. Maybe he just wants to have a purpose again. Maybe the only way you can save him is to make him switch sides."

"He doesn't need to take orders from anyone. He needs to know that he's free to choose whichever side he wants."

"You know how many orders we broke when we took down those helicarriers? How many orders did Steve and his Avenger pals break when they took out those aliens in New York? Barnes doesn't need orders, but he's a soldier. By choice. If he wants to live his life in a warm fuzzy little house eating pizza with cute girls, more power to him. I encourage it. All I'm saying is that it might not be what he's looking for. Or what he needs." I considered his words for a long moment as he sat there and ate fries and I kept my hands in my lap.

"You're right, I suppose," I finally agreed. "Some of us just aren't meant for the normal life. He needs Steve. More than me. I shouldn't have gotten involved."

"I don't think that's true either," he said as he pointed a fry at me. "He needs you because he chose you. I know he's got a little thing for you." He smiled. "But that doesn't mean anything. Maybe you need each other."

"It doesn't feel right."

"Why not?"

"Because he's broken and I'm not—all that well off either. It would never work out."

"Who said anything about working out? I'm not saying you should be his girlfriend." He laughed again. "I'm just saying, he feels safe with you and you want to help him. I know you turned down Steve's money. So you're clearly in it for something else. Even if you think your reasons aren't selfish. Maybe he's helping you as much as you're helping him. Like I said, we don't like being alone." I nodded again.

"I just don't want—those kinds of feelings to get in the way of his progress."

"Maybe those feelings are fueling his progress." I groaned loudly. There was no arguing with him, and I was too tired to come up with another excuse. I lifted the card again and looked down at his information, deciding to end the conversation.

"So when do you have meetings?" I asked him.

"On the back," he replied, taking a sip of his soda.

"Maybe I'll swing by when I get the chance."

"I hope you do."

"I have to go back to work, though. This is the only job I have now." He nodded again.

"I'll see you." I stood up and turned back around.

"Again, my tab."

"Not happening. But thanks for the offer." I smiled and stuck the business card in my dirty apron pocket.


	18. Chapter 18

A week had passed without a word from Bucky, and I almost couldn't find the motivation to keep going for another three weeks. I wanted to quit my job and even considered taking up Tony on his offer to hire me in his office in New York. I could sell my little house and be done with the mortgage forever. I could be closer to my sister again. But I didn't want to just abandon Bucky. I knew that he would come back, maybe in another week or even a whole year. I just knew he'd be back.

One day when I was supposed to be working a late shift at the diner, I left my house early anyway. Steve was busy, and I hated that he and Sam had become my only real friends. I'd lived years of my life with hardly any contact with other people, and now I was anxious when I was alone.

I decided to drive to the Smithsonian to check out Steve's exhibit now that I'd gotten to know the guy. I hadn't been there since it opened and Clara dragged me to go see it, but I didn't pay much attention then either because he was only a guy I occasionally saw walking around the Triskelion. I didn't think I'd ever get to know him. Besides, now I got to see him walk around my house a lot, and the vibranium shield found a home on my armchair almost every night.

The exhibit didn't do anything to ease my anxiety. There were pictures of Bucky everywhere. And not the man I'd come to know, but the Bucky that Steve knew and lost. I'd seen his face before I actually knew who he was, and again, I hadn't been paying much attention. I looked up at the pictures of him in his uniform. Pictures of him with the Howling Commandos. There were even old video reels of the two of them smiling and laughing and looking just like the brothers that Steve claimed them to be.

Their friendship was evident, even if you didn't already know. You could just see it in their ease with one another. I'd never seen Steve look that comfortable before. Their smiles were unfamiliar to me, and it was obvious it was the kind of friendship that had grown from time. There was history; a brotherhood. I was just hoping it was the kind of friendship that could survive so much of the trauma they were going through seventy years later.

I sat watching the videos for a long time. I hoped it would make me feel better to see him when he was still happy, but it made me feel much worse. I could barely recognize his face. I knew his features because I'd had time to grow accustomed to them. But he seemed so much more alive in the videos and the pictures. Even when all he was doing was standing next to Steve in his uniform, he was still so much more vibrant than the man who sat in my kitchen staring emotionlessly at dark shadows.

I ended up leaving before I made it through the whole exhibit. I was planning on just going to work earlier than usual and putting in some overtime. But the thought of making milkshakes before I had to, turned me away. So instead, I sat in my car in the parking lot and reached for the apron that was seated in the passenger seat. I pulled Sam's card out of the pocket and looked at the dates and times. If I was fast and didn't get caught up in traffic, I might be able to make the end of one of his meetings.

The meeting was already almost over by the time I arrived. I walked down the hall following the sound of Sam's voice and then stood at the open doorway and watched him work. He was standing at the podium at the front of the room, just talking to a large group of people. Even though they were all dressed like civilians, I could see that same darkness on their faces.

His eyes moved across the room and stopped on me. His monolog cut off mid-sentence. Then he smiled and turned back to the group.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," he said as he gestured to me. Heads turned in my direction, and I felt nervous with so many eyes on me at once. But I stepped into the room anyway and hurried toward the podium. "This is Corporal Hayes of the US Special Forces. She's also a close friend of Captain Rogers. And a hero. But she won't let you tell her that." Everyone clapped and I stepped up to Sam.

"Sorry I'm late," I told him.

"It's alright. I'm glad you came." He gave me a pat on the back, and I couldn't help but smile.

"I don't really want to talk—or anything." He returned the smile.

"That's fine. You can just listen. We're just finishing up anyway."

"Okay, I'm going to take a seat now."

"Alright, you do that." I hurried away from the podium and found a place in the first row so Sam could go back to work.

Unfortunately, it didn't last very long before he finished up. But when he finally stepped away from his podium he came right to me. Everyone was saying goodbye and hugging and smiling. People were laughing, and Sam looked them over like a proud mama duckling.

"Do they know about you stealing top secret military equipment and nearly destroying DC?" I asked him as we watched. He laughed and shook his head.

"Not a clue," he told me.

"But they know you're friends with Rogers?"

"I sort of blackmailed him into making an appearance so I could impress the girl at the front desk."

"Nice. I wonder if I could get more tips at the diner by blackmailing him into coming in during one of my shifts." He laughed heartily. I liked the way he laughed. He had the ability to make me feel calm and safe with nothing but an easy smile.

"Worth a shot. People pay extra for the old man. What can I say?"

"Thank you for inviting me. I have to get to work, though, or I'll be late."

"It's not a problem. You'll be here next week, right?"

"I'll try."

"I'll hold you to it. And you still owe me pizza and spritzers." I laughed and waved goodbye.

"I'll call you about the pizza. I don't actually know how to make spritzers."

"You better, but there has to be Pictionary, or I'm not coming."

I headed toward the hall when a man limped over to me and stuck his hand out. I reached out to shake it politely but I really just wanted to get out of there without having to talk to anyone. He enveloped both of my hands in his.

"I just wanted to thank you for your service," he said. I shook my head.

"Thank you, but I didn't do anything. Wilson likes to give me more credit than is due," I assured him. I looked passed him and hoped I could come up with an excuse to get away.

"Humility was never very becoming of you, Agent Hayes," he said. Then he stepped closer to me, and his arm snaked around my back, gripping my shoulder a little tighter than I was comfortable with. I froze in a panic, and he leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Hail HYDRA," he said. And then he let me go and slipped out of the doors faster than I thought he was capable of. I stood there in stunned silence for what felt like a whole minute before I realized I had to do something.

The crowd was dissipating, and a lot of people were saying goodbye to me as they tried to make it through the door. I finally snapped back into focus and turned back around to find Sam. He was still standing by the podium in the middle of a friendly conversation with a tall skinny kid. I rushed toward him with my heart pounding and his eyes locked on mine. He seemed to sense my distress and told his companion to hold on. Then he rushed forward to meet me.

"What's the matter? Are you okay?" he asked, wrapping his hands around my upper arms.

"Did you see that man I was talking to?" I questioned.

"Yeah, I know him. He's a…"

"He's HYDRA."

"What?"

"He's HYDRA. He called me Agent and then he said 'Hail HYDRA." He shook his head.

"That can't be true. He's been part of my group for a long time."

"HYDRA has been around for a long time too, Sam. He's HYDRA."

"Alright, alright. Calm down. I'll call Steve. We can figure this out."

"They're going to come back for him, aren't they? For Bucky?" He scanned the room and then turned back to me.

"They're still out there," he said. "And you know what they say about cutting off heads and more growing back."

"We have to find him."

"He'll come to you first, Jo. Let him come when he's ready." I sighed and shook my head.

"We can't let them have him."

He opened his mouth to speak when a loud explosion broke the calm of the room. The building rattled and dust fell from the ceiling. People screamed all throughout the hall. Sam released me and rushed toward the tall windows that looked out over the parking garage. I followed after him.

"It was in the parking garage," he said. Then he turned his eyes on me. I chewed on my lip.

"My car was in that lot," I told him.


	19. Chapter 19

Steve was really upset. Not like I thought he'd be, though. He wasn't raving and ranting and storming and throwing things. That was the kind of anger I was accustomed to. Instead, he was just pacing through my kitchen silently as I sat at the table holding a cup of coffee. He didn't say anything, but his jaw was tight, and it was evident he wasn't too happy about the fact that HYDRA had blown my car to smithereens.

"They know," he finally said. I nodded and took a sip.

"Believe it or not, I figured that out," I replied.

"I think you should go stay with Stark." I shot him a look of disbelief.

"I'm not going to stay with Stark. I'm staying right here."

"They blew up your car, Jo. You think they're going to stop there?"

"Of course not. But there's a reason they did it. You just need to calm down and try to think a bit more logically."

"I am thinking about this logically."

"Your natural response is to get me out and to safety. I'm not some random civilian caught in the crossfire. The guy knew the car was mine. It was deliberate. He knew I wasn't in the car. He wanted me to see and know what he was doing and why. To be honest, it's my fault in the first place. I shouldn't have set myself up by going to Sam's meeting. I should have known they'd have someone watching him. It was different when he came to see me at the diner."

"It doesn't matter if you went or not. They would have come after you eventually. They didn't kill you because they were sending a message. Killing you could have set Bucky off. He's too dangerous to them if you're dead. But they want you to know that they know what you're up to. This was a warning. They're going to come back for him, and neither of you is safe here."

"Stark has this place wired from top to bottom. He told me he even scans for interference. If someone sets foot in my house, he'll know about it. If I get scared of a spider in my bathtub, he'll know about it. Someone tries to bug us, and Stark will know. Don't underestimate him. He's brilliant. An asshole. But brilliant." He sighed and leaned against the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest but bent his head and shut his eyes.

"Bucky's not going to come back if they're watching you." I put my mug down on the table and watched the steam swirl away from the top.

"He's not going to come back if I'm with Stark either, Steve. We have to do what we can."

"I don't want you to put your life at risk."

"Like I said, I'm not doing this for you."

"I can't let you put your life on the line for him either."

"Goddamn it, Steve. I'm not a fairy princess, okay?" I snapped. I'd had a long day, and I was too irritated about losing my car to deal with the over protective bullshit. He looked back at me with mild shock. "I know that's what you wanted me to be, but you must not have read my files more thoroughly before giving me the job. Unless you wanted to give it to me because I just happened to be in the building at the same time."

"That was part of the reason," he said with a smile. I gave a frustrated laugh.

"Well, call me stubborn but I'm not going to give up, alright? Just stop treating me like a delicate little flower who accidentally got caught up in your world. I played that part for you, but I'm a soldier. And I was a damn good one. I may not be able to shoot a gun but I can use knives, and I know how to take out a fully grown man with nothing but my elbow and thumb, okay? I knew I wasn't a match for Bucky, so I didn't argue. But let HYDRA bring me their best guys. All the top dogs and the worst of them got taken out. I'd love to get my hands on whoever is left." He just nodded and looked back at the floor. And okay, I couldn't actually take out a fully grown man with my thumb, but I just had to hope that he hadn't been introduced to Star Trek yet.

"I just don't want anything to happen to you because I put you in this situation," he said. I stood up and walked around the side of the table.

"You know what Sam told me the other day when he came to see me at the diner?" I asked him. I didn't wait for him to answer. "He said that some people thrive on that kind of lifestyle. That they miss it. He said that's why he, you and Romanoff continue to fight for what you think is right. I didn't want to believe it at first, but I think I'm like that too. I don't know if I'm cut out for this boringly average lifestyle. I want to have a purpose again. And right now I want to help take down HYDRA and keep them from getting their hands on Bucky. So I need you to back me up and stop treating me like the fairy princess you built me to be. Treat me as your equal and a fellow soldier. Like a friend." He looked back up when I said those words. He had the look of a reprimanded puppy dog on his face, but he nodded curtly.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I just don't want you to get hurt, and I was wrong to underestimate you. I have your back, one hundred percent."

I turned to head toward the hallway and then I remembered something he'd told me about Bucky. Something Bucky had said a long time ago when they were still brothers. Steve said when they were fighting on the helicarrier, it sparked something in Bucky. So I paused at the doorway and turned my head.

"We're doing this for Barnes, right?" I asked him. He nodded. "Till the end of the line?"

"Always," he said, but his voice sounded distant and sad. I just wanted to remind him of the purpose of all of this. It was my fight now too, whether he liked it or not. But we were both in it for the same purpose.


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning I had to call Megan/Morgan to come pick me up so I could get to work. I was fairly sure I'd called her both Megan and Morgan at some point, and she never bothered to correct me. I was starting to feel kind of bad about it, but now I felt like it was too late to ask her. However, when I stepped outside my house to wait for her by the curb, I found a shiny black car already sitting in my driveway. There was an obnoxiously large red bow sitting on the top of it.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," I muttered as I walked over to it and pulled the large tag off of the bow. I didn't need to read it to know exactly where it came from and why it needed a big ugly red bow on the top. I only knew one person who had the ability to buy and ship a car overnight.

"Temporary," the tag said. "Your sister says it's temporary. It's temporary. Just put that on the card. Love Stark or something." Since it was printed, I figured JARVIS was responsible for making the tag, and Tony either hadn't bothered to check or thought it was hilarious. I groaned anyway and yanked the entire bow off of the roof so none of the neighbors saw it. Then I dragged it back into the house, so I could call Tony and let Megan/Morgan know I didn't need a ride anymore.

"Yep?" Tony said upon answering. Because a simple "Hello" wasn't cool enough for him apparently.

"The car in my driveway. Yours or HYDRAS?" I asked him. Since I was back in the house, I decided to refill my coffee mug.

"That would be mine. I promise. It has a better computer than your—well your computer. No bombs. Access to JARVIS." I sighed again.

"And it's temporary?"

"Just a loan. Unless you don't want it to be. Your sister just insisted that I called it a loan and reminded me that I'm not allowed to do things like gift my girlfriend's sister with cars."

"You're a ridiculous overgrown child in a shiny suit, Tony," I said, heading back out to the front. I promise I meant that with affection.

"You're the one with a dangerous neo-Nazi organization blowing up your car."

"You know what? You were on their list before I was ever even born, okay? And you have no room to talk because someone is trying to kill you every other weekend."

"Fair enough."

"Where are the goddamn keys? I have to get to work."

"Fingerprint."

"You have my fingerprint? Are you serious? This is some grade-A stalker behavior, Tony. Should I be worried?"

"Someone forgot to eat her Wheaties this morning." I yanked the car door opened and slid into the soft leather bucket of a seat. I looked down at the finger pad. It definitely seemed like a scanner.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I've had a rough couple of days. And a simple rent-a-car would have sufficed and covered at least three Christmas gifts."

"I have access to your fingerprint because you're a former SHIELD agent. And I gave you the car because I don't know if you're aware of this, but you've been personally selected by a terrorist organization. And the car scans for bombs." I shut the door and pulled the seat forward so my legs could actually reach the pedals.

"Well, thank you, Tony. I really do appreciate it. And I'll give you the car back when I can afford a new one. Or when I can make payments."

"The only way you'd be able to afford that car is if you came to work for me. Consider it a business perk." I pressed my head against the steering wheel. It was so tempting. If it weren't for Bucky, I probably would have said, "Hell yes," and packed my bags right then and there. But I couldn't leave him hanging. I had to know that he was okay before I accepted the job.

"I can't—Not right now."

"I know. But the job is yours when you want it."

"Thanks, Tony. And tell Clara I said hi."

"Will do. Have a good day and try not to piss off any terrorists." I half laughed and shook my head.

"Same goes for you." He snickered and then ended the call without saying goodbye. I pressed my finger against the scanner pad and the engine hummed to life, purring like a kitten.

"Whoa," I said out loud. There was a screen in the center that lit up with the engine. A little scrolled message came across the screen, telling me to have a good morning. It was signed from JARVIS. Then I remembered what Tony said about being connected to him. "Uh—JARVIS?" I asked, feeling like a moron for talking to the car.

"Yes, Miss Hayes?" the disembodied AI voice responded. I almost jumped even though I'd addressed him first.

"So I can just—talk to you whenever I want?"

"I don't know if I make a good conversationalist, but I am always here if you need me."

"Cheeky robot."

"I'm not a robot, Miss Hayes."

"Right. Sorry."

"It's quite alright. Would you like me to find you a suitable radio station? You are now connected to satellite radio."

"That sounds—like fun. Go right ahead and put something on."

"Right away, Miss Hayes."

It was going to take me forever to get used to that.


	21. Chapter 21

I hated waiting tables. I know I said that all the time, but I felt it every single time I stepped into that diner. When I took up the pancake house job in high school, I threw a party when I could afford to quit. And okay, it wasn't a real party. I mean I conned an adult into buy me wine coolers that I chugged in my bedroom when my parents were downstairs watching old TV shows.

My parents, of course, thought me quitting was a major adolescent failure and reminded me of my inability to commit to anything when I decided to join the army. They told me the military was going to be much harder than waiting tables, but their lack of faith in me is what kept me motivated through my basic training. And then I ended up proving them right in the end, and that just seemed to fuel my depression. According to my therapist. But it's hard to trust what someone tells you when they later turn out to be working for HYDRA.

By the time the lunch hour started, I already had a raging headache and my feet and back hurt. I wanted to go home and take a nap. The only good thing about the job is that it kept me moving and helped me keep my mind off of Bucky and the fact that HYDRA had marked me as a possible threat.

When the lunch rush was over, I took my break and sat down in a storage room in the back on a couple of old crates. I leaned against my knees and rubbed the ache from my forehead. I guess it was good that I wasn't entirely unemployed. But the thought of working for Stark in a nice comfortable air conditioned office seemed more and more appealing with every shift.

I heard the door swing open, and Megan/Morgan popped her head in.

"Hey, I know you're on a break," she said. "But some creepy guy just came in and asked for you. I seated him the booth where you always sit with the hot one." I nodded and stood up.

"Yeah, alright. Okay," I replied.

She held the door open for me and followed me back out to the main dining area. I stopped short when I realized who was sitting in the back booth. He had his back to the wall, but he appeared much less confident than Sam. He was slouched and trying to hide beneath a hood and his baseball cap. Not to mention he was still wearing gloves.

"Is everything okay?" Morgan/Megan asked me. "Do you want me to call Margo to kick him out?"

"No, he's okay. He's a friend of mine. Get him a burger or something. And a Coke."

"Oh, okay. I'll put in the order for you."

"Thank you."

I headed around the bar, and his shaded eyes met mine. He had his hands up to block out his face, in case anyone recognized him. But he was probably drawing more attention to himself just for looking so suspicious. I sat down in the booth across from him.

"The hood is very conspicuous, Bucky. You might want to take it off," I whispered. He lifted his hand and slid it back off of his head.

"I didn't want you to know I haven't brushed my hair," he replied. I smiled and reached across the table so I could hold his hands.

"I've missed you." He gave me a look of surprise, probably because of my words and my gesture.

"It hasn't been that long."

"Two weeks. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"I had to come back. They tried to kill you." I squeezed his hands.

"They didn't try to kill me. They were just sending me a message. You probably shouldn't even be here. Someone might recognize you."

"I didn't know where else to go."

"You're not in any trouble, are you?"

"No, I'm…" He stopped.

"You're hungry," I finished for him. He kept his eyes on mine, and that was all I needed to answer the question. "It's okay. I'm having someone bring you something. And I'm sorry for interrupting you and Steve the other night. You needed to talk to him alone. I shouldn't have done that."

"The conversation was already over." I looked him over again. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his beard was growing back in. It looked like he probably hadn't showered or slept in days.

"You should come back."

"I don't want to be a problem for you and him."

Then I thought about what Steve suspected. If Bucky had mistakenly developed some kind of attachment to me because I was the only person to show him kindness. I wondered if he thought that was what was going to cause problems between Steve and me. I wanted him to know it was all just a cover, but I didn't want him to think of it as an invitation either. He needed to worry about himself and not me. I was already getting in the way, just by making him trust me.

"It hurts us more when we don't know where you are. Do you understand? There's absolutely nothing you need to be afraid of." I gave his hand another squeeze. "Nothing." He nodded slowly.

"I came back because I don't want them to hurt you," he told me.

"When was the last time you ate? And I mean a real meal. Not scraps."

"When I was with you. I eat when I need to."

"I'm having her bring you a burger. I thought you might like it. I don't really know what kind of food you like."

"I like pizza." I laughed.

"Everyone likes pizza. So are you going to come back?"

"I shouldn't even be here. Someone might see me."

"Please, Bucky? We can finish your meal and then I'll clock out early. You won't be bothering either one of us. Trust me. We both want you there." His eyes moved over my face before he focused on the table. I took a deep breath and decided to give him, at least a little, reassurance. Even if I couldn't tell him the truth. "And—If you're worried about Steve and me—Don't be. We're not—It's not…" He lifted his head again as if he didn't understand what I was trying to get at. "It's not serious. If that's—something that you're worried about."

"I…"

"A burger and fries for the bearded gentleman," Morgan/Megan said as she approached our table with her well-practiced smile. I released Bucky's hands and returned them to my lap. She set the plate down in front of him. I wanted to ask her why she'd hurried so fast to get his meal out to us. Generally, it took at least ten minutes, even though we usually had burgers going at all times. She was always in a rush to get Sam's food out to him too, but I thought it was just because she thought he was hot. "Enjoy your meal," he said as she gave me a wink and walked off to help a customer who'd been there longer than Bucky.

He gave the plate a once over before lifting his eyes to watch her go.

"She's a spy. She works for someone else. She's watching you," he whispered. I blinked in shock a few times.

"She what? How can you tell?" I questioned.

"She only works on the same shifts that you're working on. Even if they're short staffed. She's the only server on the floor who keeps her phone in her apron and checks it regularly. She takes more orders from the phone than she does your manager. Plus, she spends more time watching you than she does doing her job." It was the most I'd ever heard him speak all at once, and I blinked a few more times before turning around and watching her help customers.

I usually never gave her much thought. But he was right. I could see the bulge of her phone in her apron pocket even though we weren't supposed to have them on us. She was wearing those chunky wedge sneakers that I thought had to be murder on her feet. And she was always there when I was, even when I came in early or on my days off. I always just figured she worked a lot. But the truth of what he said was smacking me right in the face. She really was watching me. But I didn't know her before I came to work at the diner. I turned back to Bucky. He hadn't touched any of his food or the Coke she'd set down on the table.

"Steve said it's likely the government is keeping tabs on me. I guess I wasn't paying much attention," I told him. "I don't think she'd poison you, though. I can try it first if you want." He cut his eyes to mine and seemed tense and uncomfortable. I reached over and took a fry from his plate. He watched me chew on it and didn't say anything at all.

"See? No poison," I replied.

"Some toxins take longer than others," he remarked.

"Eat." I lifted a fry, but he didn't take it. So I sighed. "Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"They're all over the place."

"Do you want me to make you something at home? I know this great sandwich shop that delivers to my house." He didn't answer, again, so I moved to climb out of the booth. "I'll be right back. Just let me clock out."

I stood up and went around to the back so I could take my apron off and let my boss know I was leaving. I didn't care that I had a strict shift schedule to follow, but my manager never yelled at me. Sometimes I thought she was afraid of me, but then I remembered that Hill set up my job, and it was more likely that she was afraid of Hill. Morgan or Megan hurried into the back to follow after me. I untied my apron from around my back and turned around to face her.

"HYDRA or Talbot?" I asked her. She looked startled.

"What?"

"Answer my question. Do you work for HYDRA or Talbot? Did you poison my friend?"

"Why would I poison your friend?" I rolled my eyes and tossed the apron into my bag.

"You're not a waitress. I should have seen it before. You're good at it but this isn't your natural element, and you haven't learned how to dress for the job yet. So you either work for the assholes who blew up my car yesterday, or you work for the government. I want to know if you poisoned my friend because I'm the only person who ate off of that plate, and I want to know if I should drive to the hospital after I leave." She crossed her arms and gave me a defiant look of disbelief.

"Talbot just wants me to make sure you're not leaking messages to HYDRA," she said. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I wouldn't poison you."

"Why would Talbot have you tail me? I thought he trusted me."

"He does trust you, and you're lucky that you just have me. But I know that you've been spending a lot of time with Sam Wilson, and Captain Rogers sleeps at your house a lot. I didn't know about Barnes, but it might be a good idea for you to start talking now." I put my hand on my forehead and looked away at the boxes of fresh fruit. This could be bad.

"He's not working with HYDRA anymore," I told her.

"Are you sure about that? He's dangerous, Jo." I nodded.

"He isn't. That's why we're trying to work with him. Tell Talbot to either stay out of it or do me a favor and don't tell him you've seen Barnes at all. Trust me on this. This can help save a lot of people. He isn't dangerous. HYDRA had him on a leash. But he's free now, and he wants to fix what they've done to him. I can't help him, and everyone else, if Talbot ruins it by butting in." She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest like a petulant teenager. That was probably what threw me off. She looked too young to be working for Talbot.

"I won't tell him if that's what you think is best. You're one of his favorites. I was just a precaution. But if he hurts anyone, I'm serving your ass to Talbot on a gold platter."

"Thank you, Morgan," I said as I yanked my bag on my shoulder and headed passed her.

"It's Marion, Jesus Christ," she whispered.


	22. Chapter 22

The car Tony sent me felt unusually small for Bucky. He was tall, but not extremely tall. But he had broad shoulders and big arms and took up more space than I anticipated. In fact, I tried to imagine what Steve would look like in the car and it got a real laugh out of me. I hadn't thought about Bucky, though.

"Okay, so here's the deal," I told him as I drove us onto the freeway. "When we get home, you should probably take a shower, and I'll walk you through washing your own clothes because I hate doing it. If you want to shave, then you should probably do that too. I don't know if beards are your thing or not, but I think you look less obvious without it. And I'm not trying to bark orders at you, but trust me when I say it's necessary. Then we can make dinner. I can't really afford to order out again and I'm not a very good cook, so we'll just pull something nasty out of my freezer or make something easy like pasta. It's probably not going to taste very good, but we'll eat it anyway and then I'm going to call Steve and tell him you're back."

"I don't want him to know," he said. He was holding his arms around his middle and staring at the cityscape. Thankfully the windows were tinted enough so that no one could see inside. But not so tinted that we'd attract attention from police. He still looked like he felt uncomfortably exposed.

"Can I ask you why?" I questioned.

"He makes me uncomfortable. I feel better when I'm with you." I nodded slowly.

"Okay, then I'll hold off on calling Steve. But could you please stay the night this time? At least this once. You can leave in the morning after breakfast if you decide you really don't want to stick around. But I don't know where you sleep at night. I'm guessing it's on the streets. And I don't like that. I have an extra bedroom, and it has a futon. It's probably not very comfortable, but I'm guessing it's better than sleeping on the ground."

"I've never heard you talk so much." I laughed.

"I'm just really glad that you came back and that you're okay. I was really worried. I guess I'm just relieved. You can tell me to stop if I'm annoying you."

"No. It's fine. I like the way your voice sounds."

I took a deep breath. What if Sam and Steve were right? What if Bucky had attached himself to me and mistook it for romantic attraction? And it wasn't that I didn't find him attractive. Especially when he had his hair in a ponytail and his beard shaved. He had a nice face and pretty eyes and a nice body. I mean, of course I'd never dated a guy with cybernetic limbs, but I wasn't totally against the idea.

The problem wasn't that he wasn't gorgeous. Just that there were so many problems, I couldn't narrow it down to one. I was supposed to be in a relationship with Steve, for starters. I was likely one of the few women Bucky had been around since the 1940's. At least the first to show him any genuine kindness and gentleness. And the biggest problem was that Bucky still had a lot of things he had to worry about and figure out before he could deal with something as potentially harmful as a romantic relationship. On the flipside, it was nice that he was able to feel something and recognize what it was.

Also, I didn't know if I was even prepared for something like that. I couldn't even fake date correctly. The last guy I dated ended up working for HYDRA. And how do you even date a man who's on the run from the government and HYDRA and doesn't really know how to do anything other than kill? I didn't even think I was at a good place emotionally for something boring and stable. Considering my last relationship ended with my knife to the guy's throat.

"Um—right. Well, that's the plan for tonight, alright? Does that sound okay?" I asked him. I didn't want him to think I was trying to take control of his life. But I was getting really tired of the flighty thing. He needed a place to sleep and eat, and if he was going to try and make it on his own, he had to learn how to do things like use a washing machine and boil pasta.

"That sounds fine," he decided.

When we reached my house, I parked the car on the curb out front. It felt weird having Bucky in the car and even more bizarre that I was going to let him into the house through the front door like a normal person. We climbed out of the car, and he flipped the hood back over his head as I searched for my keys in my bag.

I got the door unlocked and let him into the house. He immediately tensed just like Steve always did, but didn't leave me to go do a scan. I didn't think he knew that Stark had the place monitored, and I was sure Stark would have told me if someone was in the house that shouldn't have been. I led him up the stairs.

"What did you do with Steve's clothes?" I asked as he followed me to the hall closet.

"I put them on the dryer," he said.

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'll go find something for you to wear then. Here're a towel and stuff. You already know where everything is, and you left your toothbrush."

I shoved everything into his arms and turned the bathroom light on for him. He passed me and shut the door, so I went back to the kitchen to find something easy we could make for dinner. I ended up going for a boxed meal because it was all I had besides frozen meals and I didn't think one TV dinner would be enough to satisfy him.

He came back down the stairs while I was waiting for the food to simmer. I was sitting at the kitchen table looking over the electric bill that I wasn't going to be able to afford. When I looked up, I found him already standing in the archway.

"Jesus," I said with a visible jolt. "You guys really need to stop sneaking up on me like that."

"Sorry," he replied.

"And you're not—wearing a shirt." I turned my eyes back to my bill and tried to glue them there.

"You didn't bring me one."

I tried to go back through my memories of collecting Steve's clothes to see if I had made that choice consciously or not. But I couldn't remember.

"Sorry," I said. I stood and kept my eyes on the floor. "I'll go get you one."

"Does it bother you?" he asked when I reached him. I looked up at his cleaner, though still bearded face.

"No, why would it bother me? It's not like I've never seen a man's chest before. I mean, times have changed a little bit. I don't know how they did things in the forties but…" He cleared his throat.

"I meant my arm."

"Oh—Oh!"

I hadn't even thought about that. I looked down at where his skin was fused to the metal. There were ribbons of scars all around it. I couldn't imagine the horrendous surgery he must have gone through. The recovery would have been awful. I wondered if they even gave him anesthetics. Despite all the terrible things they'd done, the arm was well made. I knew Stark would probably love to get his hands on it.

I reached out and put my hand on his metal shoulder. It was smooth and cold and so strange in the way the plates shifted when he moved but still seemed oddly natural. Then I ran my hand over to where the metal met with his skin and I knew for certain that he could feel me.

"No, it doesn't bother me," I said, looking back up at him. "Does it still hurt?"

"Always," he told me. "But I don't notice it anymore."

That sounded terrible. I'd only been hit with one bullet in my shoulder and the pain still bothered me on occasion. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose your entire arm and half your shoulder and have them replace it with metal and machinery. They didn't care that he was in pain. He was in a constant state of suffering, both physically and mentally.

I ran my fingers over the scars that looked so similar to mine, and then a thought blindsided me. And I hated myself for thinking it the moment it hit me. It was bad and wrong, and there were so many different reasons for why I shouldn't even have thought about it. But it was there anyway. For just a moment, before I had a chance to push the thought back into the dark corners of my mind, I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad to love him. None of the things I was worried about really mattered if I did.

But I didn't even know him. Not yet. And that kind of attachment took more time. Which we really couldn't afford to give. So the thought was absurd for even slipping into my head like that. He was handsome, yes, but he hardly ever spoke. We didn't talk when he was around, and we certainly didn't laugh. Those were important, right? He thought I was in love with Steve and the guy didn't even know himself, let alone have time to get to know me. I didn't even really know myself either anymore.

So I had to shove that thought away before it could bury itself in my mind and force me to make an attachment where there shouldn't be one. I reminded myself that it was a terrible idea, and it could never happen. Maybe it was just the fact that I was god awfully lonely, and it was the first time in a long time that someone had shown a genuine interest in me. Even if it wasn't for the right reasons. So I removed my hand and turned toward the darkened hallway.

"I'll be right back," I muttered.

"Okay," he replied.

* * *

Chapter 22: Jo gets nervous and chatty in the presence of hot guys with robotic limbs.

(Me too, girl. Me too.)


	23. Chapter 23

After dinner, I managed to convince Bucky to stay the night, though I couldn't guarantee that he'd still be there in the morning. Let alone by the time Steve got back. Either way, getting him to agree on it felt like a success to me. So I showed him to the extra room where I also kept my laptop and stored all my crap that I didn't use. I gave him a pair of Steve's sweatpants and pulled out the futon to make him a bed while he changed. When he was done, everything was ready to go.

"I hope it's comfortable," I said as I fluffed a pillow. I don't know why I was so worried about him being comfortable. I was sure that any vaguely flat surface was more comfortable than the ground.

"It's fine," he replied.

I stood up and looked over his clean shaven face. He had his hair back in a ponytail again, and I decided that I really liked the look on him. It made him look more average. Though I guess he also looked like he played in a rock band. But it was still a better look than the full beard and grimy skin. However, if he wanted to blend in and not get caught by HYDRA, or whoever else was after him, he was probably going to have to cut his hair.

"So um…" I didn't know what to say. I was weirdly nervous around him now that Steve and Sam both voiced their thoughts about his feelings. The words fell out of my mouth, and I had nothing to follow them up with. I ended up just staring at my cluttered desk.

"Can I ask you something?" he said to fill the silence.

That was when I noticed how much more natural he was starting to sound with his speech. In the beginning, he spoke with a flat and emotionless tone. He was usually straight to the point. Yes or no, or said what needed to be said. But now he felt more comfortable asking me things. His tone felt more natural and every once in a while I caught hints of amusement even though I hadn't succeeded in making him laugh yet. Not that I wasn't trying. Though my nervousness probably just made me look awkward and weird. But he seemed so much more comfortable and relaxed in general.

"You can ask me anything you want," I told him.

"You said something before—about him—that made me wonder."

"What's that?"

"You said he doesn't love you like he loves me, and that it wasn't serious." I tried to remember when I'd said those things, but I wasn't entirely sure. I decided to answer anyway.

"It's not that I don't think he loves me or anything. It's just—I don't think it's—special."

"What do you mean?"

"Steve's been through a lot. And so have I. And we care about each other. But I think it's more—convenience and loneliness. He's my friend. I don't believe that it has the ability to move on from that point."

"That's what you meant when you said it hurt more when I wasn't here." I nodded and nervously clutched at the pillow I was still holding.

"Yeah, and you—you were worried—when you said this wasn't an option. You were afraid of…"

"Yes."

I looked down at the floor and then tossed the pillow onto the bed. Then I hugged my arms to myself and tried to think of ways I could get out of this situation, even though I felt strangely thrilled and excited about it. My logic was telling me it was wrong, and I had to back away. I couldn't act on it. And I didn't understand why it felt so difficult just to try.

"Bucky," I said slowly. "There's something I should tell you."

"What is it?"

I sat down on the futon and pulled my sweater around my body. I didn't want him to get angry, but I didn't want him to hate me for lying to him either. I wanted him to trust me, and I felt that the best way to gain his trust was to tell him the truth. I just had to put it as gently as I could. He hadn't snapped violently since that first night, but I still didn't know what might set him off again.

"I'm not—who you think I am," I told him. I looked up at him cautiously, but he was just staring blankly back at me. "I'm not really Steve's girlfriend. I never have been. I used to work for SHIELD. We set this up to give Steve a safe place for you to make contact with him. I was just supposed to be a prop."

"I know," he said softly. I looked back at him in shock.

"How did you know?"

"You're a soldier. I can tell." I rubbed my eyes and nodded.

"Yeah, I'm a soldier. Or I was anyway. And then I got shot, and they sent me home." He sat down beside me and the futon creaked under his weight.

"He's in love with a woman in New York." I looked at him, but he was just staring at the door out into the hallway.

"How did you know that?"

"I see more than you think I do."

"How long have you know this was a setup?"

"I always knew. I just wasn't sure how you actually felt about him. He does care for you. Though not the same way he does for her."

"Why didn't you say anything?" He turned his blue eyes on mine.

"Because I figured you would tell me when you were ready," he said.

"Then why did you come to me if you knew I was lying?" I asked.

"Because I could see the same darkness in you that's in me. My darkness just grew into a monster, and yours didn't." I shook my head and looked down at my twisted fingers.

"You really need to stop calling yourself that."

"I trust you, Jo. I didn't at first. But I do now," he told me. It was the first time I'd ever heard him say my name. "And I know that you trust me too. That's all I wanted. He—Steve—doesn't trust me. He wants to, but he still thinks I'm going to show my monster. You could have called for help when I attacked you. You could have had them lock me up. But you seem to want to help me. Not because you have to, but because you want to. You're helping me feel—human again."

"You've always been human. I just want you to be whoever it is that you want to be. And whatever you think you feel for me, it's not real. No matter how much we might want it to be." His eyebrows creased, and I flushed with embarrassment. What if I was wrong? Maybe he was just naturally flirty and didn't realize he was doing it.

"How do you know what's real and what isn't?" he asked. I sighed. I'd asked myself that question a thousand times but under different circumstances.

"Because I think I'm the first person—since you got free—and it's been a very long time. And I don't want you to be confused or get hurt. I want you to focus on getting better and regaining a life. I don't want you to have to worry about me. Especially not in—that way." He nodded slowly and gazed off at the door again.

"I don't really think you get to decide who I worry about." I flopped forward and buried my face in my hands.

"I know. I'm sorry. I don't get to make decisions for you either. I can't change anything. I just want you to know that this isn't the right time. Not now." I lifted my head again, and he nodded as he chewed on his lip. It was the most natural thing I'd ever seen him do.

"I know," he said. But his voice had gone back to the same flat and emotionless tone.


	24. Chapter 24

The house was quiet when I went to bed, and I had trouble sleeping. I couldn't hear Bucky at all in the other room, and I hoped that if he did decide to leave I'd at least hear the door open. But nothing came from the hall, and it really unnerved me to be sitting there in the silence, listening to that ringing in my ears.

I was still awake when the front door opened downstairs. I bolted upright just in case Bucky panicked too. I knew he must have heard it because I doubted he was a heavy sleeper. If he even bothered to sleep at all. I could hear Steve moving around the house, doing his usual check, and then I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I still waited for any sign of movement from the next room but heard nothing.

Then my bedroom door opened, and Steve stepped into the room.

"Hey," he said when he noticed I was still awake. He peeled off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair by the window. "I decided to stay here for a few hours if that's okay. I have to leave early."

"It's fine," I told him. "I need to talk to you, though." He paused for a second and looked down at me. I could already see the question on his face, so I nodded to confirm it. He pulled his shoes off and stuck them neatly under the armchair. Then he sat down on the bed beside me.

"He came back," he stated.

"He's in the other room," I told him. "At least, I think he is. I don't think he managed to sneak out this time. It's hard to say. He's more silent on his feet than you are."

"How did you convince him to stay?"

"He showed up at the diner. I think he was just hungry and didn't know where else to go. He said he was worried they were after me. But Talbot has an agent on me, and he figured her out before I did. He didn't seem very comfortable there, so I brought him back here. I let him use your things again if that's alright."

"It's fine."

"I told him he had to at least stay the one night. And we talked—about your suspicions." His eyebrows rose in question, and I nodded again. "And I sort of—spilled the beans."

"What do you mean?"

"I told him that I used to work for SHIELD, and this was a setup."

"Why?"

"Because I want to gain his trust. I think he's making progress, and if the only reason he thinks he can't be here is because of some fake relationship, I wanted him to know that wasn't really an issue. And apparently, he already knew because he mentioned your girl in New York. He just wasn't sure I had any feelings for you." He sighed and then turned away from me.

"I didn't want to bring her into this."

"Why didn't you tell me about her?"

"It's complicated."

"But you love her."

"I don't know. And I can't be sure that she loves me back. Like I said, it's complicated."

"I don't think you need to worry about her being in danger. He just mentioned that he knew about her." He nodded.

"She can take care of herself."

"So yeah, and he already knew. He said he could tell I was a soldier. He knows more than we gave him credit for."

"He was always pretty sharp. Intuitive. They probably exploited that."

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I wanted to, but he asked me not to."

"So he definitely has a thing for you," he said with a smile. I chewed on my lip.

"I think he might," I admitted. "But I told him it wasn't the right time, and he agreed."

"That's good."

"Yeah." I wasn't sure if I really felt that way. Believed it, yes. But emotionally? No.

"I guess this means I don't have to stay over anymore."

"I'd still like for you to stick close by. He needs you around. He came to me because I was a link to you." He dropped his head and nodded.

"I will. I'll talk to him tomorrow. Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"You don't have to. It's not like one more night is going to make a difference. Besides, I've gotten kind of used to having you around." He gave a short laugh, and I could feel the tension draining from his shoulders. The lie had been putting stress on him too. And I knew he probably wouldn't be getting much sleep, but at least he could be himself again.

"The couch is fine," he said. "But I'll be downstairs if you need anything." Then he stood up and left the room.


	25. Chapter 25

The next morning, I woke early to the sound of my phone ringing on the nightstand. I jumped out of bed, but it was still dark out. I scrambled to reach for my phone and then winced when I didn't recognize the number. I hated taking unknown calls, but I was in this entire situation because of an unknown phone number. I pressed accept anyway and brought the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Kitchen, now," the voice snapped.

"What? My kitchen?"

"Now." Then he hung up.

My heart was racing in my chest as I flung my covers off and hurried to turn on the light. I didn't want to meet anyone in my kitchen wearing my pajamas. So I pulled on some jeans and a plain t-shirt and tucked my sparkly pink knife into my back pocket. I could hear voices from below when I stepped out into the hall. It could have been HYDRA, but I could just make out the low sound of Steve's voice. And he sounded calm. I crossed the hall and knocked on the guest room door.

"Bucky?" I whispered. "Are you awake?"

There was no answer. So I pushed the door opened and peeked inside. The room was empty, and the bed was made. But the pillow was ruffled, and the room still smelled like the soap I'd given him to use. So I assumed he had at least attempted to spend the night.

"Great," I muttered. And then I hurried down the stairs to see who was in my kitchen.

The entire group of them was waiting for me under the dim fluorescent lights. Sam, Steve, and Romanoff were standing with their arms crossed. And Director Fury was seated comfortably at my kitchen table. I stopped short when I saw him.

"D-Director Fury?" I said. "I thought you were dead."

"Almost," he said, climbing to his feet. He seemed to be in a lot of pain but pushed it away as quickly as I'd noticed it. "What the hell did you do?" he snapped. I looked back at the other faces. Sam and Steve both appeared apologetic. Romanoff was expressionless as she studied me.

"What do you mean, what did I do?" I asked him. He slammed his hand on my table, and it looked like it had only caused him more pain. If he was trying to intimidate me, he wasn't succeeding.

"You blew your own cover."

"The job was to get Bucky to make contact with Steve, which he did. My job was to help Steve help Bucky, which is what I'm doing."

"Your mission was to be a prop. You were supposed to just stand in the background while Rogers handled the situation." I stood back and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Last I checked, I wasn't getting my orders from you. Or anyone else for that matter. I'm not getting paid for this job; therefore you have no say in how I choose to do it. Bucky came to me, and I did exactly what everyone told me to do. I played the sweet and gentle role just like I was asked. It wasn't my fault that he came to me first, but I still managed to play the role and got him to talk to Steve. I made sure he was safe."

"I'm not worried about his safety. I'm concerned about the safety of everyone else." I could see Steve flinch from the corner of my eye. Sam shook his head, and my eyes narrowed.

"He's not a monster, Fury. He's just a man, and he's responsible for just as many deaths as you are." I knew I'd struck a chord the moment I said it. Fury believed the work he'd done had been for the good of everyone. But Bucky had thought the exact same thing at some point.

"Excuse me?" he asked as he cocked his head to the side. That was when I finally took in the way he looked. He was apparently beaten and bruised but dressed like a civilian. If it weren't for the eyepatch, I probably wouldn't have given him a passing glance on the street.

"Bucky didn't know what he was doing. But once he figured it out he tried to fix it. You still seem to be making excuses for why you built guns to point at half the world."

"My job was to protect this world."

"And an excellent piece of work you did, right? Bucky thought that's what he was doing too. And his job didn't almost murder seven billion people in cold blood. Including my sister."

"I want you off the mission. I want you to cease contact with Barnes immediately." I laughed. I was exhausted and irritated, and all I could do was laugh.

"You honestly think that's the solution? He's better than all of you when it comes to hiding and searching for someone. He's going to find me no matter where you send me. And I think pissing him off might be the last thing you want to do. I blew my cover to gain his trust. He already knew anyway. He knew from the start. Your plan failed. Mine didn't. I've had more contact with him than anyone else in the past few weeks, and I know what the hell I'm doing. I don't work for you." I had to stress that last part.

"No, you don't. You work at a diner, and I have the ability to put up a perimeter around your house."

"She's the only one who can get through to him," Steve said in my defense. "If you put up a barrier between her and Bucky right now you can completely tear down all of the work that she's done." Fury cut his eyes to the Captain.

"With all due respect, Captain, Agent Hayes isn't emotionally stable enough for the job in the first place. I thought that would have been something you'd consider before asking her. Her therapist advised me to stick her at a desk where I could keep an eye on her. She has severe Post-Traumatic Stress, is prone to violent outbursts, and suffers from regular memory lapses." I gritted my teeth and shifted from one foot to the other. I knew they'd probably read my files thoroughly, but I hated having my dirty laundry just hanging out there for everyone to see. I wanted to chuck my knife at him. Not open. I didn't want to kill him or anything. But I'd get a grim satisfaction from watching it bounce off his head. The only thing stopping me was Romanoff and her calculating stare.

"With all due respect," Steve replied in a colder tone. "That's the whole reason Bucky went to her in the first place. She understands him. And if you take that link away from him you're potentially putting a lot of people's lives on the line."

"It's okay, Steve," I said as I put my hands on my hips. "Fury didn't want me to succeed. I was just bait, not a prop. Fury isn't angry because I blew my cover. Fury let you give me the job to prove that Bucky was dangerous to an innocent civilian. He's mad that Bucky proved him wrong. Bucky isn't dangerous. Not unless you start trying to manipulate him. I'm going to keep working with him regardless of what orders I'm given by someone I no longer work for. I know I'm not emotionally stable, but Steve's right. That's why Bucky came to me, and that's why I'm the best person to help him."

Fury leaned his knuckles against my table and glared at me with one dark eye. I could feel his anger in the room, and I hated that he was trying so desperately to point the finger of blame at Bucky. Bucky did a lot of terrible things, but I didn't think he was the one to blame for all of them. They were going to make him a martyr.

"If he kills anyone," he said slowly. "A single person. A damn dog. It's on you." I gave a quick nod.

"I won't let that happen."

"Prove it."


	26. Chapter 26

After everyone had left, I went to the storage place where Romanoff stored all my stuff so I could get it back. If Bucky knew who I was, then there was no point wasting money by keeping everything there. It was already the afternoon by the time I got back home. And even though I'd started the morning by getting chewed out by Fury, I was feeling a great deal better than I had before. Bucky came back, I convinced him to stay the night, and he reacted better than I hoped he would. I felt lighter just being free of the lie.

The only thing I was worried about was that he hadn't actually spent the night. I knew he slept for a little while or at least laid there just to humor me. But he was gone by the time I got up in the morning. Steve said he didn't hear anyone come down the stairs and didn't want to bother Bucky when he got up to leave. So I wasn't sure what time he snuck out.

Unfortunately, my house was still empty when I got home. I had to shut the door with my foot as I lugged a box into the house and dumped it onto the couch.

"Bucky? Hello? Anyone home?" I called out, but no one responded. So I headed back out to the car to get the rest of my stuff.

A little while later, I had my clothes back in the closet, and I was sitting on my bedroom floor going through my military stuff. I had uniforms, medals, throwing knives, pictures, letters from home, and my discharge papers. I was sifting through all of the forgotten memories when I heard the floor creak. I turned around to find Bucky standing in my bedroom.

"Hey," I said with a smile. "When did you leave?"

"Early. I didn't want to bother you," he told me.

"You can sit down." He took the chair by the window so that he could watch me, but I ended up shoving the box back into the closet before he could start asking questions. Then I turned to face him and crossed my legs. "I got in trouble this morning for telling you the truth," I informed him. "But I think it worked out alright. So Steve is going to come by later to get his stuff. He said he wants to stay for dinner. You too, I mean. Is that okay?"

"Are you trying to tame me?" I smiled, but I was thinking about what Sam said. Some of us just couldn't be domesticated, and I was starting to think that might be true for Bucky.

"Was that a joke?" I asked him. His face hinted at amusement again, but the smile never showed. "I'm not trying to tame you. I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. What I do want to do is help you. So long as you're willing to accept it."

"I'll stay for dinner."

"Excellent. And you'll stay the night again?"

"If you want me to."

"Good. Do you want to help me make dinner then?" He almost smiled again. I could sense it. For a fraction of a second, it crossed his mind, but his body didn't respond before it went away.

"I'm not sure that I'll be any help."

"We'll figure it out. C'mon, let's go see what we have."

I climbed back to my feet and stretched my hand out for him to take. He studied it for a moment, but I waited patiently until he lifted his right hand and slid it into mine. Then he stood and followed me down the stairs

And Bucky wasn't actually lying when he said he wouldn't be much help in the kitchen. For the short time I'd known him I'd seen the machine HYDRA had made him, I'd seen him confused and curious, and maybe there was even affection. But now he looked anxious.

He had no idea how to heat up spaghetti sauce.

"I'm sorry," he said as I tried to help guide him through the process.

"Don't be," I told him. I handed him a wooden spoon, and he began stirring the sauce. But still had that look of anxiety on his face as if the whole thing would burst into flames if he moved the spoon the wrong way.

"You know a lot about cooking." I actually snorted with laughter and left him to finish up the rest.

"Not really. I mean—It's from a jar, and I was the one who forgot to set the timer for the meatballs. But I guess some of my mom's lessons stuck."

"I don't remember my mother."

"I'm sorry, Bucky."

"I think I didn't—I don't think I had a mother." I turned to look at where he was slowly stirring the pot of sauce. "I think she died when I was young."

"I didn't know that."

"It's alright."

"Is there anything else you can remember?" I questioned.

"I remember Steve's mom better than my own. She was nice. Like you." I nodded.

"That's sweet."

"I remember when we joined the war. Steve and I were in a class. Painting. We tried to join together. They didn't accept him. I remember always getting him out of fights. There was a girl named Connie. I remember the Commandos more now. I remember when Steve found me, and I almost started to forget him."

"Can I ask who Connie is?"

"I think—I think she was my girlfriend. The one who said she'd wait for me."

"Sounds like you're starting to remember a lot."

"I don't remember small details. Just events. Facts. Nothing important." They sounded terribly important to me.

"You will," I assured him. "It gets easier over time. The small details are always the hardest to grasp. Sometimes you just need a little bit of a push. I'm sure the more time you spend with Steve, the more things will come to you." He nodded and turned his head to the side. He wasn't looking at me, but I could see his face since he pulled his hair back again.

"I think I remember most of it because of you," he quietly told me.

"Me? Why me?"

"Because I feel comfortable with you." I smiled to myself and was thankful that he wasn't looking at me.

"I'm glad to hear that. Now you know why I think it's important for us to stick together."

"You don't find it difficult? Having me around?" he went back to stirring, and I completely forgot about all the meatballs I was supposed to be handing over to him.

"It's more difficult when I don't know where you are, if you want me to be honest with you."

"I appreciate honestly."

I could hear the distant rumble of Steve's motorcycle turning on the street. I saw Bucky's spine go straight, and he stopped stirring. I probably could have told him that he didn't have to stir constantly, but I think he liked having a task to complete.

"Promise you'll stay?" I murmured.

"I already did," he told me.

"I think the meatballs are ready. I'm going to bring them to you." I lifted the pan and returned to his side. He stepped back so I could slide them into the pot with the rest of the sauce. When I finished and looked back at him, he was already watching me.

"I have an idea," I told him as I took the spoon from his hand. "I think you should spend the weekend with me. I don't have to work, and you're free to do whatever you want. But I think it might be good to just try. I'm not trying to change you or tame you or anything. I just believe that it would be good to relearn how to take care of yourself. In a regular boring kind of way. Like we could do housework and go grocery shopping. We can make junk food and watch really terrible movies you might have missed out on. If you want. How does that sound?" I could sense that almost smile again. His expression relaxed, and it hinted on the edges of his lips. If he stayed, I would make it my goal to get him to smile at least once before the weekend ended.

"That sounds—uneventful," he replied. And I saw his lips turn up at the corners just slightly. My eyes narrowed.

"Are you smiling?" I asked.

"I might be." I laughed and heard the front door open from the living room.

"It's me," Steve called out.

"We're in the kitchen." Bucky had gone rigid again, so I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him. He glanced at it as if he was startled by my touch, but then moved his eyes to mine. He never asked me to move it, and I could feel his warmth beneath his shirt.

"Smells great," Steve said as he appeared around the corner and smiled nervously. Bucky stepped away, and my hand slid from his shoulder.

"Tastes even better. Bucky helped with the sauce." He cringed.

"He never was any good at cooking." I swear Bucky looked like he was going to scoff. But he just turned back toward the pan.

"He was never any good at breathing," he mumbled. He wasn't smiling anymore, but Steve was.


	27. Chapter 27

Dinner went surprisingly well. I let Steve and Bucky do most of the talking since they had more to talk about than I did. I was pleased to see Bucky actually making an effort. He asked Steve questions, and Steve was eager to answer them. Sometimes Steve would tell funny stories about the nonsense they got up to as kids, and Bucky would give that almost smile. Sometimes I suspected that he had no idea what Steve was talking about, though. I was pretty sure Steve saw it too.

But when we were trying to get the kitchen cleaned up, my phone started ringing. My sister's name flashed across the screen, and since I was now allowed to talk to her comfortably, I excused myself and took the phone into the living room where I hoped they couldn't hear me.

"Hey," I said when I answered and sat down on the couch. I pulled a fluffy pillow into my lap and relaxed.

"Okay, what the hell are you doing now?" Clara replied.

"I just finished up dinner, why?"

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about your new volunteer job. Playing babysitter for the Winter Soldier."

"He's not—that's not who he is anymore. And I'm not his babysitter. I'm just helping."

"Do you have any idea how stupid that is?"

"Excuse me?"

"He's dangerous, Jo. I know that everything seems fine and dandy right now, but it doesn't mean it's going to stay that way."

"I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to make my own decisions. I asked for this job, Clara. It's not like it landed in my lap."

"That's exactly how it happened, because when they gave you the first mission they knew damn well that you wouldn't turn it down. You never turn any job down. And it did fall in your lap because this guy latched himself to you and you're playing mama cat like when we were kids, and you used to bring home weird injured animals."

"I don't think it's any of your business."

"No, it is my goddamn business because I'm worried sick about you and you're going to end up losing your house. It's my job to make sure you're okay, and you're making it incredibly difficult."

"It's not your job to make sure I'm okay. I'm doing just fine."

"I'm your big sister and it will always be my job to make sure you're okay. And you always get yourself into these situations where your life and your mental state are at stake."

"My mental state is just fine."

"For now! And so is his! For now! What about when he snaps and pulls a gun on you? What about when he comes after you with that stupid arm of his and tries to choke you to death? What happens if we can't get to you fast enough, Jo?"

"He's not going to snap. He's doing really well, and he wants to be a better person. I want to help him. And not because I'm playing mama cat, but because I know what it's like to have to do this alone. And I know nothing will help him better. He's making progress because he's not alone."

"You've never been alone. I've always done everything I could to be there for you. You were the one who moved to DC instead of staying in Ohio. You were the one who chose SHIELD over New York. I offered to let you stay with me. I said I would help you find a job."

"You're right. Why didn't I mooch off of my sister or parents instead of getting my own job and building my own life? I didn't choose SHIELD over New York. I chose to have my own things. And I was alone. I was always alone. Even if I stayed back in Ohio with Mom and Dad or went to live with you. None of you have ever had to watch people die, Clara. None of you have ever had to kill anyone."

"You think I've never watched anyone die? You think I can't be there for you because I don't have PTSD? I don't know if you're aware of this, Jo, but a lot of people died here. And I saw it happen." I sighed and dropped the pillow on my face to block out the light. And also the fact that I wanted to scream and throw my phone at the wall.

"What happened in New York was different. I don't doubt that it was traumatic for you and Tony. But—War is different, Clara. People died BECAUSE of me. And when I got home, I could barely even remember what happened."

"I just don't know why you're constantly trying to prove your strength. First with enlisting and then with SHIELD and now you're babysitting Soviet assassins."

"Don't you dare tell me that I'm not strong."

"I'm not saying that you're not strong. I'm just saying that you don't have to prove anything."

"Clara—Do you know what the number one cause of death in former soldiers is? Do you? It's suicide. So the fact that I'm still here should be proof enough that I'm strong enough to handle whatever it is you think I'm trying to prove. I don't need your support or your approval. There have been plenty of times in my life where I wanted to die, and I'm pretty sure I proved myself by not doing it. Even if you weren't there to see it." She was silent for what felt like a full minute. And then I heard her sniff.

"Jo—I'm not trying to say that you're not strong or that you have to prove anything. I know that you're strong and I've always admired that about you. I just don't understand why you keep putting yourself in situations that lead to you getting hurt. I know that you care—way more than normal people. And I know that you think you can help him. But what exactly do you believe the outcome is going to be? You think one day he's going to be perfectly normal? That the world is going to forgive him for what he's done? He's just going to get a simple desk job and file papers with his robot arm and walk around with a smile on his face and a monogrammed coffee mug? You know he's too far gone to ever lead a normal life. You haven't gone through nearly half of the trauma that he has, and you can barely make it through the night without…"

"Just stop," I told her. "Just shut up."

"I'm trying to make you understand, Jo. It's been over five years, and you're not getting any better. You function but only because you have to. You're miserable. I know that you are. And I know that he's not going to be like you. No matter how strong he is. In five years, he'll be lucky to be where you are. If you want my honest opinion, I think it'll take more than a decade to get to where you are. And that will still be progress. You can't just rewire his brain. You can't teach him how to make food and do his own laundry and expect him not to go unhinged when something goes wrong."

"What do you want me to do? Do you want me to give up on him? You want me to tell him to go away so that I can go back to having no purpose in life? I know that he's gone through worse than me," I told her. "I don't need you to remind me. And I know that he's never going to be perfectly normal and okay, but I want to do something that has meaning again. I'm not mean to sit behind a desk. I'm meant to help people."

"But you've already done so much," she pleaded. I was still lying partially stretched across the couch, and I was still tempted to throw my phone across the room.

"No, I haven't. You know that I haven't done enough. I didn't enlist to prove I was strong. I did it because I wanted to do something meaningful with my life. Mom always said I'd never accomplish anything beyond motherhood. That's what I was trying to prove. I was trying to prove her wrong. I don't want to just take care of other people for the rest of my life. I want to save lives. I wanted to be a doctor. And I messed it up."

"You didn't mess it up."

"Just let me talk. I did mess it up. I couldn't pull the trigger, and I nearly got myself killed. I joined SHIELD for the same reason. I wanted to do something important, and now my career is over, and I don't even know how I'm going to pay my electricity bill. So yeah, maybe it's crazy, and I'm stubborn, and my mama cat instincts are kicking in. But I want to do something important, and I want to help him, and I'm going to do it whether you like it or not."

"You just got done saying you didn't want to be stuck doing nothing but taking care of another person, but that's exactly what you're doing. You're taking care of him. You're helping him more than yourself."

"Helping him is helping me. It's not like a—maternal thing. I'm doing this because it's good for everyone. Even if I can't be remembered for being the hero that killed an alien invader with a staple remove, at least I can be the person helped bring James Barnes back from the grave."

"You're too goddamn stubborn. Just like Dad," she said with a sigh. "I just don't want to lose you again."

"You never lost me," I argued.

"Yes I did, and you know it. You came home, and it was like you were a whole different person. I just don't want something to happen to you and have you shut off for good this time."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not the sister you wanted me to be. But I'm doing this with or without your approval, and I don't care if it gets me killed. I have to do this. I want to do this."

"Just don't tell Mom what you're doing. You'll give her an aneurysm."

"Oh God, no. Never. I wouldn't tell her if they tried to torture it out of me." I took a deep breath and sighed. She wasn't arguing with me anymore, and her voice had gone softer. She was going to give up the fight, and I was grateful for it. But I wanted to end the conversation. I didn't want Bucky to hear. "I have to go help the super-soldiers clean my kitchen. I'll talk to you later."

I didn't wait for her to say goodbye. I ended the call and dropped onto my couch. I put my head in my hands and took four deep breaths. Then I heard the sound that Bucky made when he touched the wall in the hallway. When I moved the pillow, he was standing by the staircase. There was a concern on his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I smiled and hopped back up to my feet.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just arguing with my sister, but what else is new?" I told him. His eyebrows creased.

"She doesn't like what you're doing for me," he decided. I shook my head.

"No, it's not that. My family doesn't like anything that I do. It's not you. They've been trying to make me normal and boring my whole life."

"Normal and boring isn't really you." I took a deep breath and slapped my hands to my side.

"You're right about that. Would you like some help with the dishes?" He looked down at the floor as he thought about it. But then he turned his eyes back to mine. He had that almost smile again. Now I was going to make it my goal to get him to smile fully.

"I think we can handle it," he said. Then he turned back around and returned to the kitchen.

The argument with my sister left me rattled, but I tried not to let it get to me. Steve and Bucky were getting along. He was making progress, despite what she said. And they both looked happier than I'd seen them the entire time I knew them. Sure, there was still the possibility that something could set Bucky off and make him revert back to the Winter Soldier at any moment. But even if that happened, I felt like I could probably pull him back out of it.

Once Steve helped us finish cleaning up, he got all his stuff together, and I walked him back out to his bike. He had nothing but a backpack to hold the stuff he'd brought to my house, but he left a few things for Bucky. He looked kind of silly with a backpack on. Like a giant kid riding his giant bike to school.

"I talked to Stark this morning," he told me as he stepped off the curb toward his motorcycle. The sun was already down but still light in the sky. I could feel the temperature dropping by the minute, but this time of night always made me feel comfortable and safe. And it had been a good day so that just added to what I was already feeling.

"How fun for you," I replied. He smiled.

"He decided to actually add me to the list of people to call if anything goes wrong. Rhodes isn't always here and can't always be relied on. If you press your panic button, I won't be too far away." I instinctively touched the bracelet on my wrist. I had forgotten its real purpose. I wore it every day, and I knew to take it off to shower, but it had just sort of become a piece of jewelry I was used to.

"Thanks, Steve," I said. He nodded and mounted his bike.

"Don't mention it. And uh—Thanks. For you know, volunteering to do this. And for everything else you've done."

"Thanks for sticking up for me against Fury." He gave me a smile and kicked the bike to life. It was loud and rumbly and echoed through the whole neighborhood.

"Don't mention it," he said over the noise.


	28. Chapter 28

I was glad that Bucky was going to stay another night and that I had a whole weekend to spend away from the diner. I had it all planned out in my head. I wanted it to be as boring and normal as possible. Not because I wanted that lifestyle, exactly, but because sometimes it was good to focus on boring and ordinary things. And Bucky didn't have enough of that in his life. I also just didn't know what we could do to stay busy without leaving the house. I didn't know if HYDRA was still watching me and I didn't want to lead Bucky into a trap. We both felt comfortable at my house.

I couldn't sleep again, though. The truth was that I just hated sleeping alone. That was one of the reasons it was so easy to get comfortable with Steve. It was why I had allowed Oscar to start staying at my house so quickly. And okay, there were a couple of one night stands that were based on my desperation to not be alone.

And it wasn't that I wanted Bucky to crawl into bed with me or anything. Or even that I wanted Steve there for platonic cuddling. I did like when he was there, but I was used to being alone. I slept better when I had someone next to me.

There were a lot of trees between my window and my neighbor's porch light. The only time my room ever lit up at night was when something tripped the sensor. And then I'd see all those twisted shadows waving across my walls. The light was bright, and I laid there staring at it. I couldn't sleep with it on, and I could see the tree shake as a fat little silhouette scaled the tree. I heard the raccoon thump onto the roof and scuttle into the nest he'd made in my attic.

I really should have called someone to get him out. I knew he was damaging the house, and it would probably bite me in the ass when I inevitably had to sell it. But I'd made peace with the little guy. He made my nights feel less lonely, and he never caused problems except for when he dug in my trash and left a trail of garbage in the backyard. But I don't think he really liked my trash anyway. He preferred the neighbors where they didn't have a garbage disposal and tossed all their leftovers out.

Maybe Clara was right. Maybe I was too nice and did have a strong mother cat instinct. I let my attic and my house suffer over a raccoon I named and almost considered a pet. And now I was potentially putting my own health and life at risk by taking in a trained assassin with memory loss. Maybe my mom was right too. It was I my nature to care for things. Her declaration about me being destined for motherhood was probably her way of saying that I was destined to care for people. She just could have worded it differently.

As I laid there listening to the sound of the raccoon getting comfortable in his nest, I heard a muffled moan from the other room. I lifted my head off of the pillow and strained to hear through the ringing in my ears. The doors were closed, but I could hear Bucky's subdued struggle even from the distance and through the walls. He was quiet and only spoke when he needed to. He had to go out of his way to make noise just so he didn't scare me. So the fact that he was groaning in the guestroom made me think something was wrong.

I couldn't just sit there and let him go through it alone. I knew how much it sucked to have to fight through a nightmare to wake up by yourself. My nightmares weren't as bad when I had someone lying next to me, and I had them to bring me back home. I wanted Bucky to feel that same comfort. So I climbed out of my bed and tiptoed across the hall to the extra room.

I knocked gently on the door, but he didn't wake up or respond. So I pushed it open and looked inside. He was lying on the futon, shirtless and sweating, and seemed to be at war with the sheets.

"Bucky?" I said as I cautiously stepped toward him. "Bucky, wake up. You're dreaming." I sat down at his side and pressed my hand against his cheek.

He shot back to life in an instant. His metal hand gripped my wrist and yanked it tightly away from me so that I ended up flopping over his body. His teeth were gritted, and his eyes were cold and unforgiving as he sat up and faced me. He looked just like the Winter Soldier in my dream. He was breathing hard and fast, and I cried out from the pain that cracked my wrist.

"Bucky!" I shouted. "You're hurting me! It's Jo! You were just dreaming! Let me go!" And then his senses snapped back into place, and he released my wrist. I pushed myself off of him and rubbed the pain from my bones.

"Jo," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You didn't mean to. It's fine." I had my hand cradled to my chest, and my lips pinched. He reached out to pull my hand away from me again, but much more gently.

"I didn't mean to."

"It's okay. It's my fault. I should have known better than to touch you when you were having a nightmare. I'm actually surprised you didn't wake up swinging."

"I don't know if it was a nightmare or a memory." He held my hand on his lap and gently rubbed the red marks on my wrist. He kept his metal hand back and away like he didn't me to be afraid of it. But his other hand was soft, and his fingers managed to work the ache out of my wrist.

"Sometimes it's both for me. It's hard to tell the difference." He sat still for a moment, and I watched his breathing go back to normal, but I tried to keep my eyes on where he was holding my wrist and not the fact that the trees in the yard were leaving twisted shadows on his bare skin.

"Will you tell me—what happened to you?" he whispered. He looked away from my arm and over to where my scars were exposed on my shoulder.

"I enlisted when I was eighteen," I told him. "I hadn't even graduated yet. I guess I thought I had something to prove. My dad always talked about how badly he wanted boys. He got two daughters instead. I suppose I never did manage to prove anything to them. I trained to be a combat medic. I was good at it. At least good enough for Special Forces to notice me. I can't actually—remember most of it. But my last mission with them—we had to guard a school full of really young kids. Like seven or eight years old. There was a threat of some sort. We were really just sent in as a precaution."

"What went wrong?"

"It was a setup. They were already waiting for us when we arrived. Started shooting as soon as we landed. We couldn't fire back because they were using the kids. Didn't matter in the end. The kids died anyway. And I just—couldn't shoot back. I sometimes think that I might have had a chance to save them if I'd just been brave enough to pull the trigger. There was a little girl. Got shot right through her stomach. Likely hit her intestines and numerous organs. There was no exit wound. She was going to bleed out before I could get her someplace safe enough for surgery. I did everything I could anyway because I didn't want her to have to die alone. There was a grenade. I came to about twenty feet away. The first thing I saw was her face. She didn't survive the blast. She couldn't have been more than seven."

"And when you were shot?"

"Right after. He came around the corner. He'd sent the grenade in to clear the area, and I was all that was left in the courtyard. He saw me and aimed his gun, and there was this brief moment of time where I could have fired first. But I hesitated one second too long. Hit me in the shoulder to get me down. In truth, he probably saved my life by aiming for my shoulder. He could have shot me in the face."

He lifted his hand and moved his fingers over the spiderweb of scars on my skin. He looked deep in concentration and thought, and I was kind of worried my story might trigger something in him. But he seemed more thoughtful than bothered. Then he looked back into my eyes and asked me the same question I'd asked myself a million times.

"Why couldn't you shoot him?" I shook my head, and his palm held my shoulder. His hand was large enough so that it managed to actually warm the chill out of my body.

"I don't know. I ask myself that a lot. And I've come up with a million different reasons, and none of them can really narrow down what I was feeling. I guess I was just afraid of taking his life. I knew I'd never be able to take it back. And when I was younger my mom used to have this saying. That it's not our job to decide who gets to live or die. I guess I just felt like it wasn't my place to take his life. I don't know why, because if I'd done it—maybe there would have been more survivors. Maybe some of my friends would still be here."

"I think that makes you brave," he said.

"How?" I questioned.

"You knew that he would shoot you, and you still decided it wasn't your place to take his life. Do you know how hard it's been for me? To suppress that urge?"

I shook my head and looked down at my lap. He'd let go of my wrist so I twisted my fingers together. His hand was still cupping my shoulder. I wanted to reach out and rest against him. Just to be held for a moment by someone who understood. It didn't have to be romantic, and if I knew Bucky didn't feel that way I might have actually done it.

"Why do you suppress it?" I asked him.

"Because I know it's wrong." He said before that he didn't know how to tell the difference between right and wrong. So I looked back up at him.

"How?"

"Something Steve said that night. Before you came."

"What did he say?"

"He said that—whenever I need to know the difference between what's right and wrong, I should think of you."

"Me?"

"He said to imagine you in that situation. What if they took you and pulled you apart and took everything that made you who you are and stuck someone else in your place? I can tell the difference just by imagining you in the situation. If I don't want you to be there—or I don't want you to get hurt—then it's wrong." I looked down at the sheets still tangled in his legs.

"I'm what helps you?"

"I told you that you did."

I set my hand down on the other side of his legs so that I could lean against it. My wrist wasn't hurting anymore, and we were sitting awfully close. But I felt comfortable with him. And the urge to wrap my arms around him and bury myself in his chest was still there. He moved his hand off of my shoulder and the air felt sharp and cold where his hand had been. I didn't want him to let go.

"Do you regret it?" I asked him. It took more bravery to ask him that than it did anything else. "Do you regret what they made you do?"

"That's why I don't think I can ever be normal—like you want me to be. I don't think I deserve that kind of peace. I don't deserve you." I studied the ridges on his metal arm. They shifted when he moved, and sometimes I could hear the uniquely digital sound it made every time.

"But you didn't mean it."

"I did mean it. I was following orders. I knew what I was doing even if I didn't know why."

"You didn't have a choice. They forced you."

"I still did it. And maybe the man who shot you didn't have a choice either." I pinched my eyes shut.

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because they stripped you of everything you were. They turned you into a weapon. They made you so that you couldn't disobey. The man who shot me made a choice. If he's still alive right now he's going to wake up every morning knowing that he made that choice and that he's responsible for the deaths of children. You—you were not a killer, James Barnes. You were a kid from Brooklyn who got caught up in something dark and violent. You were a hero who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I killed when I was James Barnes too, Jo. I was a sniper."

"I don't believe that you ever did it because you wanted to. I've killed too, Bucky. Maybe I've never shot a gun, but I had other weapons and skills."

"How do you know that I never wanted to kill anyone?" I looked back at him and shrugged.

"Because I can see it. The way Steve talks about you. You were a good person, and they stole that from you. And I know that's still in you. I want to help you get it back. Even if you think you don't deserve it."

"Why do you have so much faith in me?" he asked. He had leaned back on his hands but still looked too damn good in the tree shadows. The neighbor's light wasn't on, and the room was mostly dark. But there was still just enough illumination from the moon and the city to make him visible through the moving shadows.

"Because I need to know that people can get better," I admitted. I couldn't look at him. Not just because I was telling him something truthful that was also awful. But also because he looked so damn nice and it was making me think about things I shouldn't have been. I could see him shake his head slowly, and I knew that he hadn't taken his eyes off of me.

"Not everyone is strong like you," he murmured.

"You think it's strength?" I asked. "I sat at a desk for five years, I bought a house and forced myself out of bed every morning. That doesn't make me strong. You think this is really the life I wanted?"

"Then why do you do it?" I couldn't find an answer. My eyes had gone hot, and I had to take a moment to fight the urge to cry.

"Because I'm not cut out for anything else," I finally whispered. "When I joined the military I thought I was doing the right thing. Took me years to realize I was wrong. Everything we were doing was wrong. And SHIELD was wrong. I contributed to so much—death."

"Who says you're not cut out for anything else?"

I was able to fight the urge to cry, but I was losing the fight against touching him. I moved forward and touched my hands to either side of his face. I ran my thumb over his cheekbone. And once I was finally touching him, all I could think about doing was kissing him. Maybe I just wanted to make him stop talking. Or maybe it was because of the moonlight and shady trees. I didn't know. But the conversation died the moment my lips touched his.

I couldn't be entirely sure, but I didn't think Bucky had kissed anyone for a long time. I knew he had a girlfriend named Connie that he'd been with before he shipped out. But Steve had told me a few stories about the things Bucky got up to while they were Commandos. But that was still a great deal of time. He hadn't aged much since the last time Steve saw him. That meant he was likely in cryo-sleep more than he'd been awake. But I highly doubted he'd done any kissing during the few times he was awake.

I almost pulled away because he took a moment to react to me at all. But as soon as I made the decision to let him go and pretend it never happened, he finally responded. I felt his hand on my shoulder again. He slipped it up into my hair at the back of my head so that he could pull me harder against his lips. I could feel his wrist brace rough on my skin. His metal hand moved to the small of my back where he pulled me closer. My hands found their way to his shoulders, and then on his neck and into his hair.

I was terrified that the only reason we were attracted to each other was that of some emotional imprinting. Which would mean it couldn't possibly be real. And I would be lying if I said the attraction wasn't mutual, but I still hadn't ruled out loneliness. Or my tendency to put myself in dangerous situations.

But if it was just loneliness then why hadn't I felt that way for Steve? I didn't know, but the kiss had moved a little too quickly. His metal hand was growing warm on my back, and I felt his fingers squeeze involuntarily. It made a thrill run up my spine, and my fingers grasped his hair. Even though he probably hadn't kissed in a long time, he seemed to know what he was doing. My heart was racing, and adrenaline shot through my body. But then I felt the strap of my shirt snap under the pressure of his grip. I gasped and pulled away.

"I'm so sorry," I said, even though I hadn't moved my hands out of his hair and his lips were so tantalizingly close.

"For what?" he asked.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"I wasn't complaining."

"I know but…" I moved my hands back down to his bare chest, and it took everything I had to stop myself from running them all over him. "I don't think either of us is ready for this," I decided. He lifted his hand to touch me again, but I slipped away and left his room before I lost control and yanked my clothes off.


	29. Chapter 29

I still couldn't get back to sleep. I was stupid for kissing Bucky. It was the dumbest thing I could have done. I told him that nothing could come from this and that there was nothing between us. And then I'd gone and smashed my face into his just because he looked so damn nice in the shadows.

I was going to go ahead and blame the loneliness again. I hadn't had sex in—well a long time. And Bucky was attractive, and I was definitely attracted to him, and he just happened to be sitting there half naked in the goddamn moonlight. Maybe if he just wore a shirt, none of this would have happened.

So I laid there in my bed clutching my pillow and wearing a shirt with a broken strap. I was frustrated, angry with myself, and I probably wouldn't even have slept if I was dead. Luckily, I didn't hear any more sounds from Bucky's room, and I didn't have to fight myself to stay away. I sincerely hoped I hadn't scared him off. Although I wouldn't blame him if he did leave. But he did promise to stay the weekend, and I was going to hold him to that. Provided that I could still face him in the morning without embarrassment. It was still my job to make sure that he was okay. He depended on me. And I didn't want that to all go to waste just because I stuck my tongue in his mouth.

The morning came as a relief. I hadn't gotten a full night's sleep, but when I did it had been dreamless. I got out of bed as soon as I saw the sky begin to grow lighter beyond the trees. Then I jumped into the shower to cool my head and remind myself of my ultimate goal. The problem was that I wasn't even sure what my goal really was. It was just like Clara said, it wasn't going to last forever.

When I was done, I dried off and got dressed. Then I headed back down the hall to see if Bucky was awake, as I tried to come up with something to say.

"Bucky?" I asked as I tapped my knuckles on the door.

"Yes?" he responded. I sighed in relief. He hadn't snuck out after all.

"Can I come in?"

"Yes."

I pushed the door open and found him sitting at the edge of the futon. He still wasn't wearing a shirt and his hair was messy and falling in his face. It looked like he'd actually managed to sleep, and I instantly regretted my decision to come in. Because he was looking a lot more than just "nice" in the early morning sunlight.

"Um…" I said as I quickly looked away and rubbed my wrist. "I was thinking of making breakfast. I usually just have cereal, but I also don't usually have guests. Steve hardly ever stays for breakfast. So I thought we could make waffles. I can show you how to use the waffle maker. It's not really an essential life skill, but my parents got it for me for Christmas and I—eat them a lot…"

I was rambling again, and he knew that. I was also looking at everything but him. At least until he stood up and came to stand right in front of me. He reached for my hand, and I almost flinched, but not because I thought he was going to hurt me. I thought he was going to pull me into his arms and kiss me. Instead, he examined the marks on my wrist. I hadn't even realized why I was rubbing the sore spots. I forgot what he did the night before. All I could think about was that kiss and nothing else seemed to matter.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"It's a little sore," I admitted. "But I'll be fine. Why don't you—take a shower and all that stuff? Steve left you a few of his things. I'll just meet you downstairs when you're ready." He gave me a quick nod before I slid my hand out of his and hurried back to my bedroom. I wanted to hit myself for acting like an idiot. This definitely wasn't the kind of stuff he had to deal with, but my hormones must have been going nuts.

While Bucky was showering, I wasted my time blow drying my hair and getting ready for the day. I decided to wait for him to leave the bathroom before I left my room. Just in case he was naked again and I continued to act like an idiot. Luckily he wasn't. He was wearing Steve's clothes again, but the colors were all wrong for him. I smiled when I met him in the hallway anyway.

"So, waffles then?" I asked. He nodded.

"Waffles," he agreed.

I led him back down to the kitchen and set up the waffle iron. I walked him through how to make them even though it wasn't a necessary skill. Within a few minutes, we'd made a huge mess and made more waffles than the two of us were capable of eating. But I think he was having fun, and so I didn't ask him to stop.

And I think he really liked them. To be honest, I was sure he just liked food. More specifically, he liked sweets. He put away more waffles than I thought he would and I made a mental note to spoil him when I went grocery shopping.

Once we finished cleaning up the mess, I convinced him to get back in my car so I could get him a few things. I was really just afraid he'd sneak away if I left him in the house alone. But he reluctantly agreed to come with me, on the condition that I didn't make him leave the car. So I felt weird leaving him there while I went to find him clothes and man stuff.

When I rushed back out to the car, I found him sitting in the seat with his hood up looking extremely uncomfortable in the growing spring heat. It was a good thing the windows were tinted, and the air conditioning worked. Though JARVIS flat out refused to respond to him and only put the air conditioner on when I asked.

"I got you a few things," I told him after I shoved the bags into the backseat. He was looking out the windows, watching people walk by on the streets.

"Okay," he replied.

"Alright. Groceries next. I know you don't want to get out of the car, but trying to find clothes that would fit you was hard enough. I have no idea what kind of food you like."

"I don't have a preference."

"You seemed to like waffles." I saw him give that ghost of a smile in the reflection on the glass.

"I like waffles," he agreed. "And pizza." I laughed and put the car in gear.

"Everyone likes pizza," I reminded him. "But I'll get some frozen ones."

I chose the most secluded mini-mart I could think of. It was on a less crowded street with a lot of shade and trees. I didn't think he was all that comfortable sitting in the car out front of a barber shop, but I figured the smaller store might make the trip quicker. I left him with the radio on so he didn't have to be alone in silence.

When I was done, I walked back across the street with multiple bags hanging from my arms. I had to leave a few of them on the curb so that I didn't drop them, and when I reached for a carton of milk, I found a gloved hand already lifting it for me. I hadn't even heard him get out of the car. He was standing on the sidewalk, still with his hood blocking out his face. I smiled. I didn't blame him for wanting to stay hidden, but it was nice to see him out of the shadows for once.

I reached for the milk, and he handed it over, but it slipped out of his fingers and went crashing into the pavement, splattering milk all over us. He flexed his gloved fingers like they were bothering him again.

"I'm sorry," he said as he looked down at the hand.

"It's okay," I told him.

I reached for what was left of the carton and stuck it in the trunk. I considered going back for more but I wanted to ask him about his arm, and most of it was salvaged anyway. So I shut the trunk and nodded for him to follow me back to the car. He was quiet as we got seated.

"So what's going on with your arm?" I asked. He stretched it out and moved his fingers a few more times.

"It hasn't been working the same," he explained.

"Why didn't you tell me you were having problems?"

"It wasn't so bad at first. I don't know how to maintain it. Sometimes I lose my grip, or the plates lock up. I can't hold onto things. I didn't say anything because I don't use it as much."

"It seemed to be working just fine last night, and that time in the kitchen," I reminded him. I didn't want to be rude, but those fingers had left sizeable bruises. His eyes flashed toward me and narrowed dangerously. But he managed to suppress whatever emotion he was feeling and shook his head.

"If it were working I would have snapped your bones," he said slowly.

"I thought you were just being nice."

"It wasn't made for being nice. I don't know how to be nice." I nodded and pressed my finger against the keypad to start the engine.

"I know someone who can take a look at it. I can call him if you'd like."

"Who?"

"Stark."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" I asked. I reached around him so that I could pull the car out of the space. The screen in the console would show me an image of the back when I hit reverse, but I still couldn't get the hang of using it.

"Because I killed his parents." I slammed on the breaks and made the car jerk violently. I had my arm over the back of his seat so I could see out of the back window, but I turned to focus on him now.

"You remember it?" He looked over at me and the expression on his face seemed guilty and sad.

"I'm not just remembering Bucky's life, Jo." I pulled back out onto the road.

"Well, that's something we're going to have to keep from Tony then, okay?"

"That's a good idea."


	30. Chapter 30

Romanoff mentioned that Bucky may have had a hand in assassinating Howard Stark, but I couldn't stop thinking about it as I watched him mow my lawn. I couldn't blame him for what happened. I knew that he wasn't in his right mind when Tony's parents died, but I also knew this could cause problems for—well everyone. My parents worshiped the Stark family, my sister loved Tony. And Tony loved her back. I couldn't imagine what would happen if I told one of the most dangerous men in the world that another of the most dangerous men in the world killed his parents.

Howard Stark saved my grandparents' lives. If he hadn't gone into that alley that night, I might never have existed. And if I didn't exist then I wouldn't be here helping Bucky in my own small way. It was all a big complicated mess. And all I could do was pray that Tony never found out the truth.

Bucky's hair was pulled back and out of his face again. I thought about taking him to get it cut so that he would look less like the Winter Soldier and more like James Barnes, or maybe just an ordinary guy who happened to wear gloves a lot. But I couldn't bring myself to ask him. I liked it too much. I knew that was selfish, but I figured we could just talk about it if the situation got any worse.

I had already mowed the front yard, and hated every second of it, so I asked him to do the back. It was smaller, and it was too hot for him to be outside with a hoodie and gloves on. So I gave him the backyard so he could have his arm exposed and not have to worry about any neighbors calling the police about a guy with a robot arm mowing a lawn.

He was wearing a tank-top and sweatpants that I got for him while we were out. I stuck with darker colors since that's what he seemed to prefer with all his sneaking around in the dark. If it weren't for the fact that his arm was reflecting sunlight and had a big Soviet star on the side of it, he would have looked like an average guy, who didn't seem to know a lot about modern gas powered lawn mowers.

It didn't require that much effort to push, but he stopped on occasion to shake out his metal hand. It seemed to be bothering him even more than the one that had been broken. He swore it was completely healed, but the doctor in me wanted him to wait to take the brace off. He obviously used his right hand as his dominant hand, even when it was broken. He used his left hand as a weapon. The only time I'd ever actually seen it in action was when he'd shoved me against the counter and when I'd woken him from a nightmare the night before. And the time he'd broken a plate and dropped the milk. I could mend flesh and bone, but I didn't know the first thing about repairing a cybernetic arm.

He told me that he meant to hurt me that night in the kitchen. If he had full control over his arm, he very well could have snapped my collarbone just because I set him off by asking him to call the police and touched him without asking. And when I'd woken him up from his nightmare the night before, he very well could have crushed my wrist in his hand.

Maybe I was lucky that his arm just wasn't working properly. It actually kind of bothered me. I didn't want him to hurt me, of course. I had just attributed his lack of any real damage to his desire to be a better person. I thought he didn't want to hurt me. In truth, it was just because the damn thing wasn't working right. He never intended to be gentle with me at all. And I wondered about the guys who tried to mug him that night he came to me. They'd probably be dead.

I let him continue even though he was struggling to get the mower going. I could have got up to help him, or just done it myself, but he seemed determined to get it where he wanted. And he kept muttering to himself. I thought the muttering was a healthy sign. It meant his brain was focused on the task and not whatever his memories were churning up in there. The Winter Soldier had been a silent killer. He wore a restricting muzzle and never made a sound until he was in physical or emotional distress. Bucky Barnes was pushing a mower across my backyard in sweatpants, complaining about the heat and the machine not working.

That had to mean progress, right?

I knew Tony could probably very easily get the arm working properly again. In fact, he probably could have made it even better than before. He might find a way to give Bucky more control over his strength and ease some of the constant pain. Maybe he could make it less easy to notice and less dangerous. But I couldn't risk Tony finding out about what Bucky did to his parents.

The man acted like nothing in the world could bother him, but I saw his face at Thanksgiving when he came to Ohio for dinner. We took him to meet my grandma, and she'd sat in her little rocking chair and told him all about how Howard had saved them in her thick Sokovian accent. Tony's face had gone blank. He didn't like talking about his father, and I didn't want to be there when he finally found out the truth about his death.

Eventually, Bucky managed to get the rest of my lawn halfway decent. I wasn't too meticulous about it because I never did it anyway. I just thought it would give us something to pass the time, and letting him do normal boring things seemed to help. Plus it might be easier for him to blend into society if he could do normal civilian things. Even if that life was never a legitimate option.

The rest of our day really only included junk food and family friendly television. Clara and I watched a lot of TVland reruns because it was the TV our parents watched when we were growing up. So I turned on some reruns of the Andy Griffith Show, and we sat on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and bag of candy. Though I think he still felt out of place and anxious.

"This is an excellent episode," I told him. The both of us were still sitting stiff and uncomfortable, and I just wanted him to relax and let his mind focus on something else for once.

"I've never seen it," he told me. His spine was straight, and he had his hands on his knees. He didn't make a move for the popcorn or the candy. And I regretted my decision to get him a tank-top because his right arm was visible even from the corner of my eye and I just wanted to lean on him and have it wrap around me.

"Well, it's good," I told him. "I mean—this is the episode where Andy learns how to not be a sexist dick. Kind of ahead of its time. Which is funny—because it's after your time." He gave me a look as if I was implying that he was a sexist dick. But he didn't say anything. "It's my sister's favorite episode."

"What's your favorite episode?" I chewed on my popcorn and thought it over.

"The one where Opie accidentally kills the bird."

"Why?" he asked.

"It makes me cry." I fiddled with the bag of M&amp;M's so he could reach them, but he still didn't make a move.

"You like things that make you cry?" I lifted the bag and this time he finally scooped a few into his hand.

"No, I just like things that make me feel."

"Is that why you kissed me?" I almost choked on an M&amp;M. He watched me cautiously, waiting to find out if he should help me or not. But I waved him away and tried to buy time to answer that question. I sat there for a minute watching Andy get his ass handed to him by a girl with a gun. So he could learn his lesson about equality.

"Maybe," I finally said. "I guess that's why I kissed you."

"What did you feel?" he asked. Like a goddamn idiot.

"You ask a lot of really difficult questions." I really didn't want to answer him. I'd been avoiding it all day, and he hadn't said a word about it until now.

"I was just curious." I inwardly groaned. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"It made me feel—a lot of things."

"Then how can you say it's not real?" I exhaled slowly and focused on the TV screen.

"I can't say it's not real," I admitted. "If I feel it then it must be, right? I just don't know if it's a good idea or not. Because there is so much more we have to do before we can get caught up in something like that."

"You said that sometimes it takes years to feel human again. The world isn't going to forgive me for what I've done. I'm never going to be able to live a normal life."

"It's not about—being human. It's about it being so soon. You need time to heal and regain your sense of self before you can…"

"Before I can what? You're the only thing that's made me feel human."

I took a deep breath and turned to face him. I tucked my feet under me and looked at how comfortable he seemed now. Since we'd been talking, he'd leaned back on the couch and stretched his arm over the back of it behind me. The blinds were closed, but the room was still illuminated in a bright, warm glow. Stubble was growing on his chin, and he had his hair tied at the nape of his neck. And all I wanted to do was kiss him. I felt like such an asshole.

"What if that's just it, Bucky?" I asked him. He turned his blue eyes on me. Normally, they were cold in color. But in the warm glow of my living room they looked vibrant and light, and God, he was beautiful. "What if that's the only reason? Like when ducks imprint on the first thing they see after they're born. What if that's all this is?"

"Why does it have to fit a certain mold to be real?" he asked me.

"Because I know what it's like when you find out something isn't what you thought it was. I know how much it hurts because you were so eager to push for something you weren't ready for. Like when you have a really good dream, and you wake up to find out that none of it happened. Or maybe it just didn't happen the way you thought it would."

"All of my good dreams are about you." I leaned on my elbows and rubbed my eyes again. I focused on my feet and my knees that were pressed against the side of his leg.

"I just feel like a bad person," I admitted.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you've gone through something traumatic and horrible. And I know that you're trying really hard, but you're not there yet. I don't want you to relapse because of me."

"You're the only reason I've made it this far. I don't want to disappoint you. Being around you—feeling comfortable around you—it helps me remember Bucky. I know that I'll never be normal again, but you're the only person who's made it feel like a possibility." I leaned on my hand and looked at him. He still had his hand on the back of the couch, and I could feel his skin just out of reach. I could feel the warmth of his leg on my knees.

"I don't mean to push you," he said. His voice was soft, and his expression was sincere. "I've just lived long enough to know how valuable the truth is when you might not get another chance to tell it." I took another deep breath and let it go. God, I wanted to kiss him.

"I understand," I said. Then I looked down at my hand again. "And I do—feel things—for you. And I feel awful for feeling that way because there's so much more for you to do before you can be ready for that. I don't know if I'm willing to—give up on my life just yet."

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Jo. I said what I wanted to say. I don't expect anything in return."

But he was still looking at me, and he was so close. Maybe he was right. It wasn't about things as complicated as relationships or anything. Just telling the truth while you still had the chance. And sometimes telling the truth meant you just had to act on what you felt while it was still there in front of you.

So I moved my hand and held it against his cheek. He leaned forward just as I did and our lips met. His hand moved off of the back of the couch and to the back of my head to draw me closer. But the kiss was soft and sweet and didn't move as fast as the one the night before. So I forced myself to pull away, and ran my fingers over his chest. Then I turned and leaned against the couch so I could face the TV. We didn't say another word, but he kept his hand on the back of the sofa, and whenever I shifted, I felt his fingers brush my skin.

...

I was literally watching the Andy Griffith Show when I wrote this chapter.


	31. Chapter 31

It was difficult for me to get to sleep again, even though I was exhausted. I laid in my bed for a long time staring at the ceiling. When I finally did fall asleep, it didn't last very long. The slightest noise woke me and sometimes even when there were no sounds, my mind forced me awake anyway. Then I would like there again in an endless cycle.

I didn't fall into a deep sleep until after midnight. And when I finally did slip into unconsciousness I found myself flat on my back on a bed of crumbled cement blocks, staring up at smoke on an otherwise clear blue sky.

The ringing in my ears was loud enough to ache, but it was blocked out by the growing pain in my shoulder. I could feel the warmth of my own blood as it spread out beneath me. I groaned and rolled onto my side so I could attempt to get back on my feet. Under the ringing, I could still make out the distant pops and booms of gunfire and explosions. I pressed a hand against the blood on my shoulder and moved myself to sit just as another soldier ran through the courtyard and dropped a few yards away from me. I could hear him screaming over the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart.

I struggled to get to my feet so I could reach him, but my legs weren't strong enough to carry my body. It wouldn't be good to stand anyway. I could leave myself open. So I did a half crawl through the debris as I cradled my injured arm against my body and tried to get to him. I recognized him even though we'd never formally met. His name was Colonel Talbot. He followed us into the mission even though he very well could have stayed behind.

I couldn't let him die there, but my struggle to reach him was taking too long. They were going to find him before I could if I didn't hurry. I was bleeding profusely, and I could already feel my energy and focus beginning to slip.

I was almost to his side when a grenade rolled into view. Talbot had been watching me try to get to him, and we both froze when I saw it. He started shouting at me. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I gathered from his hand gestures that he wanted me to get out of there. To use my chance to get away while I still could.

The grenade was either a dud, or it was slow to react. I decided to change direction. I could go right toward him, and the both of us could die if it suddenly went off. Or I could get rid of it and save the both of us. It was a risk I was willing to take. I could hear him screaming at me as I moved for the grenade. His voice grew louder and more frantic as I reached for it. The metal was cold and heavy in my fingers as I gripped it in my hand like a baseball. The men who'd thrown it were on the other side of the court, yelling, and waving weapons. They were out of ammo.

The throw sent pain rocking through my body, but I gave it my best shot. My dad always said I had a good throwing arm, and I hated that he never let me join softball. I watched the grenade fly across the courtyard for only a few seconds before it finally ignited. It burst open in the air like a firecracker and sprayed everyone in the area with chunks of broken metal and a rain of fire.

Aside from a few extra burns, Talbot seemed mostly unharmed. I could feel the pieces of metal burning through my clothes and searing my skin. But the pain still wasn't strong enough to deflect from my shoulder. The group of men had been hiding in an alley to shield themselves behind a building. The grenade took out half the balcony, and I watched as the building crumbled around them, pouring an avalanche of concrete and plaster down on top of them.

Talbot had stopped screaming at me, but he was still clutching his bleeding leg in pain. There were a few extra burns on his clothes and his face now. And I moved back in his direction. Within a minute, I was at his side. He yelled at me as I scooted closer. I didn't have my medical pack anymore, but I pried his hands away from the wound on his thigh. He tried to shove me away and shouted some more. I slapped his hands. I'd probably get in trouble for that later, but I wasn't going to let him die over stubbornness. I stuck my fingers into the hole in his cargo pants and ripped them open. I yelped from the pain it shot through my shoulder, but then I bit my lip and examined the entry wound.

"I have to stop the bleeding," I informed him, even though I couldn't even really hear my own voice. He was still yelling at me, but I decided to use my damaged eardrum as my excuse to not follow his orders. "Your femoral artery might be damaged. I'll have to check." I looked back at his face. He was still staring at me with both disbelief, shock, and maybe just extreme pain. "Bite something," I told him.

Then I turned back to the wound and dug my fingers in. He screamed loud enough for me to hear it. I felt his body tense, and he fought the urge to throw me off of him. I knew it wasn't the safest or cleanest environment for me to be performing such an invasive surgery, but I needed to be sure that his vital artery wasn't punctured or severed. I could worry about the infection later when I had access to antibiotics, and he wasn't running the risk of bleeding to death.

That was the worst part about my dream realities. It was exactly what I'd told Bucky just the night before. Sometimes they were dreams and sometimes they were memories, but they were worse than memories because they hit you unexpectedly. And instead of just the dull, fuzzy way you remember a previous event, I was hyper aware of every sensation.

I could feel the heat of the sun and fire. The sweat dripped from my helmet and down the back of my neck. I could feel his warm blood beneath my hands and an artery slipping between my fingers. Gunshots ricocheted off of bricks, burns prickled at my skin. I could feel blood slither out of my ear. Worst of all I could still hear screaming under the persistent ringing that just wouldn't stop.

It was Bucky that saved me from the dream. The ringing was so loud I could barely hear at all. But through everything, I managed to make out my name, even though I couldn't place where it was coming from. I could still hear Talbot screaming, that ringing and gunfire. And then in an instant, the blinding sun was gone, and I was in a darkened bedroom. He was sitting on my bed beside me, hovering over me with his hands on my upper arms to stop me from swinging at him.

"Johanna," he was saying. I blinked a few times as I gasped for breath and focused on his face.

"Bucky," I replied. He released my arms, and I reached up to touch his face, just to know that he was real, and I was actually home, and it was all just a dream.

"You were dreaming," he told me.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" I didn't know. I hadn't expected that question. I could still barely breathe.

"Because I didn't want you to see me like that."

He nodded slowly and licked his lips. He was hovering over me, and I'd fought with the blankets and sheets enough so that they spilled over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. My room was freezing compared to the heat I swore I'd just felt, but Bucky's body was warm where it touched mine. His arms had me pinned like a cage, but I felt safe and comforted, rather than restricted.

"I understand," he finally said. "At least you didn't try to kill me."

"Only because there isn't a knife in reach," I told him.

Then I closed my eyes and put my hand on my chest to slow my heart. I counted the beats. One, two. Three, four. Bucky stayed where he was, and I felt my heartbeat slow, and I could breathe again. So I opened my eyes and looked up at him.

When he showed up in my kitchen that first night, he had seemed so dark and frightening. He hid beneath a hood and a baseball cap. Now he seemed so normal and at ease. It was his expression that made him look so calm and relaxed. Like he could smile at any second. Like he wasn't suffering.

I thought about what Clara said on the phone as Bucky waited patiently for me to collect my thoughts and regulate my breathing. What did I really expect to come of all this? Bucky could never live a normal life. He'd always be on the run from someone. The world might never forgive him. It didn't matter who his friends were or what he did to prove his innocence.

I lifted my hand again and traced my thumb over his cheekbone. He didn't seem like that man to me. The one HYDRA had made. I'd seen glimpses of him, of course, but I figured that was leftover HYDRA programming. Maybe it really was possible for him to regain something of himself.

"Bucky," I said as I moved my hand back to his shoulder and dropped it onto my chest again. "What do you think is going to happen? With us?" He looked confused again. His eyes creased, but he kept them on me.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You said that—you don't think you can have a normal life. But is that even something you want?"

"You won't like my answer."

"Just tell me."

"A normal life isn't possible for people like us. Even if we want it."

"Like us?"

"I don't think you're meant for this life either," he told me. "Not the way you've been living." That wasn't the first time I'd heard that, but I didn't know what other options I had. I couldn't go back to the military. I didn't want to work for Stark. There was nothing else for me to do.

I reached my hand out and grasped his metal arm. I didn't know if he could feel me since he didn't even seem to notice me move. Or at least he just didn't focus his attention on it.

"Why do you think that?" I asked as I ran my fingers over the red star.

"Because I can see that you're unhappy. And you were meant to do great things. Like Steve."

"Like—a hero?" His lips almost smiled again.

"Maybe. If that's what you wanted. I just know you were meant to help people. Not serve food. You were meant for more."

"Then no matter what happens—this won't last." He looked away toward my iron headboard, but he hadn't moved from his spot. He was still hovering over me, and neither of us seemed uncomfortable by it.

Sometimes, even though Steve's presence was comforting, I could tell that he didn't really want to be there. It wasn't me that he wanted to lie next to, and I was always afraid to accidentally touch him. I didn't want to overstep my boundaries or make him uncomfortable. I never lay against him unless he initiated it, but usually, when he slept in my bed there was at least a foot of space between us. Even though there was hardly enough room on my bed for it.

Bucky seemed much more comfortable there. Or maybe he was just more comfortable with me. And I knew he felt something for me since he'd admitted it. I'd acknowledged that I was attracted to him, but I hadn't told him that I wanted him to be the one lying next to me.

He looked down at me, and I already knew the answer he was going to give me before he put it into words.

"No," he said. "I don't think it will last. They've already come after you once. They may not have tried to kill you, but there's a reason they kept you alive. It was a message, and it means they're coming. There won't be any place to hide." I tightened my grip on his arm.

"I don't want them to take you," I told him.

"I won't go without a fight."

"What if fighting isn't enough?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "Then I guess I'll just have to do whatever I can to hold onto the memories I'm getting back. And the new ones."

"Do you think your memories are strong enough to fight it?" He took a moment to think of an answer as he looked around my shadow darkened bedroom.

"This one might be," he decided. I moved my hand back onto his shoulder where his skin met with metal in ribbons of pink scars.

"Steve was right about you," I remarked. His eyes widened, but his lips hinted at that smile that was still just out of reach.

"What did he say?"

"He told me you were kind of smooth with the ladies." Then he laughed. It was quick, short, and soft. But it was real. The kind of laugh you share with your friends. It was exactly the kind of laugh that was meant for people lying in bed together.

I don't think I'd ever smiled so wide in my whole life, just to hear him laugh. But what Bucky said when we were watching TV on my couch was still bouncing around in my brain. He said it was good to tell the truth while you still had the chance.

My life had been boringly average for five years. Aside from my constant struggle to regain control of my sense of self, nothing had shaken that up. Until the disaster with HYDRA. Bucky's arrival had done the same, but it wouldn't last. Just like Clara and Bucky both said. It wasn't that I was being pessimistic and thought everything would fall apart. But he wasn't cut out for this life and sooner or later he was going to leave again.

Bucky said he knew the value of being honest while you still had the chance. He was still caught in a partial smile from laughing. So I moved my hand to his cheek and pulled him toward me. His lips came down on mine as if he'd known all along that I wanted to kiss him.

"You need to slow down with the smooth words," I whispered against his lips.

"Why? It worked, didn't it?" he replied.

"Shut up."

I kissed him harder. His mouth was rough against mine, just like you'd expect from someone who hadn't kissed in a while. But he was careful as if he was afraid he might actually hurt me. He was warming up to it quickly, though. The night before, he'd been cautious too, but I'd been so caught up in what I felt that I hadn't actually paid attention to it. He really was trying to be gentle with me, despite what he said.

I wanted him to let go of that. I didn't want him to hurt me, of course, and I knew he had a difficult time understanding his own strength. But I trusted that he wouldn't hurt me, or that he would stop if I told him he was. I wanted to see him smile again. I wanted him to be happy. And God, I just didn't want to stop kissing him.

So I pulled him closer, and his arm gave out. He stumbled onto me, and I realized it was his trouble with his arm and not because I'd caught him by surprise.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"It's okay," he told me. He yanked the wrist brace off of his arm and tossed it onto the floor. Then his metal hand gripped my shoulder, and he leaned on his elbow to get comfortable. His body was partially stretched across mine, and he was warm, and I didn't want him to leave.

"Will you stay in here with me tonight?" I asked as I moved a long strand of hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I won't let you."

I lifted my head and kissed him again, harder this time, and after a moment instinct seemed to kick in. His fingers twisted in my hair, and I adjusted my legs to center him between them. That appeared to be the moment he gathered that I wasn't just asking him to sleep in my room.

He pulled away as if to speak but seemed to catch himself. He hesitated and I lifted myself onto my elbows. Then he moved away from me. So I sat up and put my hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" I asked. He kept his blue eyes on mine, but they seemed so much more vibrant and alert than when we first met.

"How do you know this is real?" he asked me.

I moved my hand onto his face and moved closer to him so that I was standing on my knees before him. His arms wrapped around my body and he pulled me onto him, positioning me on his lap. I skimmed my fingers over his face before reaching around my back for his right hand. He released his grip on me as if he was afraid he'd held me too tightly, but I just moved his hand back around to my front and pressed his palm flat against my chest over my heart. His fingers relaxed against me, and I moved out to touch his chest too so I could feel his heart beating beneath his ribcage.

"Can you feel that?" I asked. He looked down.

"It's beating fast," he noted. "Are you afraid?" His eyes darted back to mine, and I shook my head.

"I'm not afraid," I told him. "Yours is beating as fast as mine. Are YOU afraid?" He stretched his fingers out to lay his palm flat against my skin. I could feel this thumb graze the skin beneath the hem of my shirt.

"No."

"That's how you know it's real then," I whispered.

"But you said—before." I shook my head to stop him.

"I was just worried. I'm still worried. About you. I don't know what's going to happen. But—you said that you knew the value of being honest while you still had the chance. I just felt—guilty."

"Why would you feel guilty?" I moved my hand onto the side of his face again. I could see what Steve and Sam said about him looking at me differently. I knew it had probably been there all along, and I'd just forced myself not to see it. It was evident now.

"Because you don't think this is going to last. And I don't want that to be because of me." He moved his hand away from my heart and to the crook of my neck. I closed my eyes because he was being so gentle. He had been made to cause pain and kill, but I could feel that man fading away.

"You're the only reason I'm still here," he said. "It won't be your fault. This is the closest I've been to real—anything—that I can remember." I felt his thumb move over my neck again, and my heart jumped. "So when this does end—I'll do what I can to get it back. Even if I have to keep fighting—for a long time."

I moved forward and pressed my lips against his again. It was the closest thing to genuine affection I'd heard from another person in a long time. I had heard the words, "I love you," but it never felt like it meant anything. Not to me or the person who'd said them. And I knew it was too soon to love Bucky because I hadn't known him very long, but whatever I felt for him was as real as my own heartbeat.

His hand wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me against him. I could feel his heart against my chest now, and I hoped that meant he could feel mine. But his lips broke away, and I felt them come to rest on my chin.

"Do you promise?" I whispered.

I knew it was risky to ask something like that from someone you hadn't even known long enough to love. Someone you knew you couldn't be with and you knew wouldn't be around for much longer. But I wanted him to promise. Even if there was no romance and nothing came of this attraction at all. I just wanted to know that he wouldn't just walk away. That maybe I'd left a mark on him, just like he had on me. No matter where that took us.

"Yes," he replied.

I moved my lips back to his, and his hands slid up my back and into my hair. He kissed me roughly and then gently moved me back onto the mattress.


	32. Chapter 32

The next morning, I woke up to sunlight filtering through the thick trees in the yard. It was a breezy morning, and the trees were waving quietly, leaving dancing shadows on the walls. I could still feel Bucky's metal arm around me. It was heavy on my body, but I didn't want to wake him up. It was the most content I'd felt in a long time, and I didn't want to ruin it.

I decided to move anyway, but not to get out of bed. I just rolled over so I could face him, and he reacted instantly. His arm shifted so that it wasn't so heavy on me and I could move freely. I rolled only my side and looked up at the sleepy man lying on my pillow.

He looked happy. For the first time since I'd met him, he appeared completely and utterly content. I could see a light in his blue eyes. They were sleepy but relaxed. The corners of his lips were hinting at the almost smile again, but it wasn't strained. Like he was preparing himself for a smile he already expected. It looked like he actually might have gotten real sleep.

I leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. His metal fingers gripped my shoulder, but gentle enough so that it didn't hurt.

"Do you believe it's real now?" I asked as I rested my head on the pillow. The smile appeared as easy as expected.

"It was always real for me," he told me. He moved his hand out from under my pillow and rested the back of it against my chest to feel my heartbeat.

"You're so cheesy." His smile was crooked as if he found my words amusing.

"Do they not go for cheesy in this century? Always worked when I was younger." I laughed.

"I kind of like it, but you have to promise not to tell anyone."

I leaned onto him and rested my head against his chest. I wrapped my arm around him, and his slid back beneath my pillow. We laid there for a moment, and I listened to the sound of his heartbeat and thought about all the things he'd told me in the dark the night before. Some good things. Some not so good.

It had been so long since I'd heard another heart beating like that. The sound brought me comfort. It reminded me that I was real, and he was real. He was a human being with a heart and a mind and no matter what happened, as long as that heart kept beating, I would do what I could to keep him safe. It wasn't love yet, and I knew it was pointless to hope for it. But I sincerely wanted it to be. Love could get messy and complicated, but it was so much easier to keep going when you had it. Even if it wasn't romantic.

"Are you hungry?" I asked him.

"No," he told me. His voice rumbled low and deep in my ear.

"Are you just saying that because you don't want to get out of bed?" I felt his cold fingers on my bare back.

"Maybe," he admitted. I looked up at him and smiled.

"We can make breakfast."

"We could also just stay here."

"I would like that, but I'm starving."

"Can we make waffles again? I think they're my favorite." I laughed.

"I think you have a sweet tooth. But we can make them if you want."

"I do. And I think you're right. I also feel like I should say another cheesy line, but nothing is coming to mind."

I laughed and slid out from under his arm. Then I went to find some clothes. I settled on a plain t-shirt and some jeans. Bucky put on the clothes he'd been wearing the night before. Just the black tank-top and sweatpants. My phone began to buzz as he pulled his hair back up out of his face and secured it with a hair-tie. I reached for the phone and felt my heart jump in my chest.

It was Stark, and I really wasn't in the mood to deal with his snarkiness. I forgot he had JARVIS monitoring my heart rate and body temperature. Which meant he was probably aware that we were awake and mindful of the fact that both of them had been raised in the middle of the night. And since he hadn't called the night before to check on me when my heart and temperature were probably going up rapidly, I guessed he knew damn well why.

I pressed accept and brought the phone to my ear. Then I motioned for Bucky to follow me into the hallway.

"I don't want to hear anything," I told Tony. "I forgot."

"There's someone in your house," he said. He wasn't using his playful voice. This was serious Tony. The guy who flew around in a metal suit and put himself at risk for the sake of others. Not the one who threw parties and imitated Marilyn Monroe when he answered phone calls.

Bucky and I had stepped out into the hall so I put my hand on his chest to stop him.

"What?" I asked.

"You've got company. Steve is on his way," he informed me.

"You don't mean Bucky and me?"

"Unless you've got a third wheel I don't know about, I'd get the hell out of there."

"Stay on the line."

"I am." I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked up at Bucky's concerned expression.

"There's someone here," I told him.

His body went rigid, and his eyes hardened. The relaxed and content Bucky who had just been in my bed a few minutes before was gone, and for a moment I was worried I might not get him back. I didn't want him to cross over that line again. But if Steve was on his way then it meant someone else was in my house. We were going to have to face it eventually.

"I'll go first," he said, and then he headed for the staircase. I hurried after him.

"Bucky, don't. Let's just get out of here." He turned back around to face me.

"There's no getting out now, Jo."

He slid out of my grasp and headed down the stairs. His shoulders were straight, and he walked like he was ready for a fight. I could hear the distinctly digital sound of his arm powering up. I was just glad he could still distinguish between me and whatever mental mission he was preparing himself for. I followed after him, still clutching the phone in my hand.

"Jo!" I could hear Tony shouting from the speaker. "Johanna!" I didn't want to answer him until we were out of there or knew what was going on. Bucky made it to the bottom of the stairs and surveyed the living room. Then he turned toward the kitchen. I lingered at the bottom and watched him disappear into the hallway. "Johanna!" Then I heard the unmistakable click of a bullet entering a chamber. I froze. "Jo?" I could still hear Tony asking, but I couldn't answer now even if I wanted to.

"Put the phone down," a voice said from behind me. I pinched my eyes shut. I knew that voice. I was just hoping I'd never have to hear it again. I stuck my hand out to the side and dropped the phone. It bounced against the bare wood floor, and the glass went clear. "Turn around." I turned around to face him and opened my eyes.

"Oscar," I said in greeting. The gun was now aimed at the center of my forehead. There was an inch of space between me and the weapon, but I could feel its phantom touch. I put my hands up to my sides in a show of surrender. I wouldn't be fast enough to grab the gun.

He was dressed in all black, and his dark eyes were on me. I wasn't afraid of him, even with the weapon to my head. It was Bucky I was worried about. I didn't think he'd hurt me, but I knew he was nearby. I couldn't hear him moving through the house, but he only made a noise when he wanted me to hear him.

"How's HYDRA working out for you?" I asked.

"You know what they say, Johanna. Cut off one head and two more grow back," he replied with a casual smile. His face seemed more drawn out than I remembered it. Maybe he got a promotion after HYDRA fell and didn't really have a full understanding of the job before then. I really hoped he felt guilty.

I took a step back, hoping to put enough distance between us so that I might have a chance to get that gun out of my face. But my body hit a solid figure, and I paused. I didn't know how long he'd been standing there, but I knew it was him. I felt my raised elbow brush against something smooth and cold like metal.

Oscar had undoubtedly known he was there, but he didn't make any sudden movements. His eyes didn't move when Bucky appeared. He gave nothing away to me. I could feel Bucky's heart beating against my back, and I knew he was waiting for something. Either he was waiting for instructions from Oscar, or me. I might not be fast enough to get that gun before it could go off, but Bucky was. So I stretched my fingers out and motioned forward.

His left arm shot outward and yanked the gun out of Oscar's hand before he had enough time to pull the trigger. The gun launched across the room and skidded to a halt beside the couch. Bucky's right arm darted out and shoved me against the stairs. His body twisted as his left hand flew toward Oscar's face. Blood spurted from his mouth, and he crashed into the entertainment center, sending a shower of books and movies onto the floor.

My front door opened with a bang and a whole group of them swarmed into the space. They were all clad in black and had their guns raised at Bucky. I stayed on the stairs with my hands around the banister. I was unarmed, and all I could do was provide a distraction if it came down to it. I'd have to wait for my moment.

"Drop him, Soldier!" one of the agents shouted.

In the commotion, Bucky had wrapped his hand around Oscar's throat and lifted him off of the floor. He responded to the order and released his grip. But instead of complying, he swung around and sent his fist into another face. Then he turned and his elbow met with a nose. Another man was flipped over his shoulders and landed with a crash on my coffee table, which sent broken and splintered wood across the room. I scooted down on the stairs and made to reach for one of the pieces of wood that was big enough to use as a weapon. But before my fingers could reach it, there was another gun between my eyes.

I took a second to react. I didn't know if it was instinct or the thrill of the fight, but I kicked out my leg and struck the agent in the stomach. He flew backward and landed against the wall in the hallway, but he quickly regained his balance and rushed at me. He met me as I jumped off of the bottom step. Our bodies collided, and the two of us slammed against the hard floor.

"Jo!" Bucky shouted.

He had my pink knife in his hand. I'd left it on the end table the night before. He tossed it toward me, and it slid across the floor. I scrambled to get free of the agent and wrapped my fingers around the glittery handle. The blade swished open with the click of a button, and I swung back around. I didn't want to kill anyone, but I didn't want them to get away unscathed either.

I got him across the forehead. He yelped and jumped back to get out of my reach and landed himself right in Bucky's path of destruction. Bucky launched him across the room, and he fell on the other side, crashing into my armchair and knocking over a lamp. That left the two of us standing in a sea of bodies in the middle of my living room.

Bucky didn't appear to be satisfied with that. He stepped over a motionless agent and went right to where Oscar was struggling to get to his feet by the stairs. He gripped him by the throat and pinned him against the wall with his metal hand. Oscar was bleeding badly, but Bucky wasn't going to let him die quickly. He squeezed his fingers and cut off Oscar's breathing. He sneered as he waited for the man to turn blue. I wondered if he'd already be dead if Bucky's arm was working properly. Despite it not working at full capacity, it still seemed capable of a lot of damage. It was all he was armed with, and there wasn't a single person still on their feet.

Oscar began to struggle. He kicked his legs and yanked helplessly at the metal around his throat. He choked and sputtered and all I could do was keep my eyes on Bucky's face. He wasn't Bucky anymore. This was the Winter Soldier, and he was even more terrifying than the few glimpses I thought I'd seen of him. I walked over to them and dropped to the floor on Oscar's other side. I put my hand on Bucky's arm so that he could feel my skin and maybe I could bring him back.

"Bucky, listen to me," I told him in a soft voice, even though my heart was pounding and I could barely breathe properly. My lip was bleeding and swelling from my fall against the floor, but I wiped the blood away on the back of my hand. "Bucky, let him go. I know you want to kill him, but you're not a killer. Not anymore. Please let him go?"

He barred his gritted teeth like a wild animal. His eyes were pinched and dark and for the first time since that night in my kitchen, I was actually afraid of him. He showed me that he knew the difference between them and me, but I didn't want him to kill again. I wanted him to be free of that guilt. I could see on his face that he wanted Oscar to die. He was enjoying it. And this death would be a choice he made entirely on his own. He'd never get to take it back.

"Let him go," I whispered. "Please?"

Finally, he released his fingers, and Oscar stopped struggling. He was unconscious and slumped against the wall. Bucky leaned over him and leveled his eyes with mine. They were still dark and violent, and he looked at me like he wanted me to see who he really was.

"I want him to die," he whispered in a cold voice. "I want to do it. And that's why I can't live this life with you. I want to kill each and every one of them." I nodded slowly and put my hands on his shoulders.

"I know, but…" I started.

"I have to go," he said.

"I know."

"I have to get out while I still can. More of them will come."

"I'll wait here for Steve. Get out of here and come back when it's safe again. Promise me that you'll come back." He reached out and pressed his palm flat against my heart. Then he pulled away and stood up.

"I don't know if I can come back here," he told me as he turned toward the back door. But he paused before he reached it. He looked back at me, and I could see remorse in his eyes again. I hated that I couldn't protect him from them. I just wasn't enough. "I'll find you, though," he told me. "I promise." Then he slipped out of the door.


	33. Chapter 33

When Bucky was gone, I turned back to Oscar to make sure he was still breathing. He appeared to be unconscious, and I could hear other men groaning throughout my living room. I really hoped none of them were dead. So I stood up and went to check the man who was sprawled across my living room rug. He was breathing, but his spine was bent, and I wasn't sure if he'd be able to recover from that. I knew I shouldn't feel bad for someone who had wanted to kill me just minutes before, I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I guess that was the risk they took when they swore their allegiance to HYDRA.

I had my eyes off of Oscar for a moment too long. I was staring down at the unfamiliar man bleeding on my floor when I felt a boot meet the back of my knee. I toppled over and then Oscar's hand wrapped around my ankle and yanked me back toward him. I swung and tried to fight him off, but he pinned me beneath him. He smothered my face with his grimy, bloody hands when I yelped involuntarily. His face was seething with rage.

I scrambled for the knife I'd dropped when I fell. My hand wrapped around the sparkly pink handle, and he didn't try to stop me. He smiled down as he moved his hands and pressed his thumb to the hollow of my throat.

"You can't do it," he said. "You've never been able to do it. You're too much of a…"

I swung upward and jerked the knife into his chest. I couldn't pull a trigger, and I didn't like killing anyone, but that didn't mean I lacked any other skills. I was always good with knives, and it was the whole reason Captain Russell had wanted me to join his team in the first place. It was how I got my team to stop calling me "Tinkerbell." They thought "Knives" was more fitting.

His eyes widened in shock. His expression went from rage to disbelief in a flat second. He rolled off of me as he gasped and whined about the stupid sparkling pink handle sticking out of his chest. I crawled away from him and nearly tumbled over the man with the broken spine.

"You bitch," he was saying with astonishment. "You little bitch. I can't believe you actually stabbed me. I'm going to bash your goddamn head in."

Since my knife was gone and I wasn't about to risk going back for it, I reached for the gun that had landed by the couch. I got to my feet and raced for the door. I knew Steve was on his way, and if he got there in time, I'd never have to use it. But I didn't have enough time to dig my throwing knives out of my closet. I needed something, even if I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger.

I stumbled out of the front door and onto the lawn. I could hear him crashing through the house after me. I spun back around and lifted the gun. He had found another one, probably one that belonged to a comrade. He was waving it casually as he walked off of the front steps with my knife still sticking out of his chest. The shock was gone now, and the rage had returned.

"I've been thinking about this moment since the day you kicked me out," he said as he held the gun aloft in one hand. The other one was clutching at his bleeding chest. The bedazzled pink hand protruded from the space between his fingers, right above his Kevlar vest and below his collarbone. "The first time you pulled this stupid pink knife on me, I said to myself, 'God, I can't wait to kill this bitch.' You know what they told me? They said, 'Not yet. We've got plans for her.' But they're not here, and I'm really going to enjoy this."

He lifted the gun, and there was a split moment where I was forced to make another choice. I could take his life, or I could let him take mine. I knew he wouldn't aim for my shoulder. He would go right for my face, and I'd never live to see another day. I'd never see Bucky again, and he would go after Bucky.

My mind went blank. I felt my finger stroke the trigger and the pounding of my heart made me feel like I was still going to freeze. But then the gun shook in my hands, and the blast reverberated through my whole body and rattled my bones. The shot was so loud I could hear it echo through the otherwise quiet neighborhood. The alarm in Tony's car began to wail. I could hear someone screaming from another house.

His eyes went blank, and blood poured from the hole I'd put in his throat. He took one more step before he dropped face first into the grass and didn't move.

I stood for a moment in complete shock. My mouth hung open, and my brain couldn't seem to register any thoughts. I moved my hand to my side, and the gun slipped from my sweating fingers and landed with a thud on the sidewalk. Then I limped forward and sat down on the grass at his side. I rolled his body back over. The knife had bent from his landing. A chunk of his neck was gone, and I pressed my hand against the hopeless wound. I couldn't have done this. I couldn't have killed him. I couldn't even remember making the choice or aiming my gun.

I used to fall asleep to the sound of his heart beating the same way I did with Bucky the night before. Even though there was a darkness in him, there was a point in time where I hadn't seen it. I liked him. I even wanted to love him. I couldn't forgive myself if that heart stopped beating because I'd made the choice to end his life.

"Please, don't die? Please?" I repeated as I began doing compressions on his chest. I knew it was a lost cause. His airway was blocked with blood, and his heart had stopped beating. I kept trying anyway. I couldn't let him die if there was still a chance to save him.

I heard footsteps pounding on the grass as someone rushed to us. She appeared on the other side of Oscar's body and dropped. She pressed her fingers against the side of his throat that wasn't bloody and tried to check for a pulse even though it was obvious there wouldn't be one. It was the girl who worked for Talbot. Marion.

"Are you okay?" she asked me as she leaned over his body and put her hands on mine. I was still trying to press against his chest.

"I killed him," I told her. "I didn't mean to." She wrapped her hands around my wrists and pushed me away from him.

"He's dead, Jo. He's gone."

"I didn't. I can't. I couldn't."

"I already called Colonel Talbot. He's sending someone out. Are there any more of them?"

I slipped my wrists from her hands and clamored away from the both of them. I staggered to my feet and headed back toward the sidewalk. I didn't have a destination in mind. I knew I'd never be able to escape the guilt. My hands were shaking and covered in sticky blood. He tried to kill me first, but I pulled the trigger and ended his life. I could have aimed for his shoulder or even his arm. I didn't think at all. I just lifted my gun and shot.

Then I thought of his mom. The woman I'd never met, who invited me over for Christmas dinner because she thought there was hope for our relationship. I thought about the call she was going to get. Despite all of the wrong her son had done in HYDRA's name, I was the one who ended his life. The woman who used to fall asleep listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

I remembered what Sam said that day in the diner. I put the lives of others before my own. I didn't shoot Oscar for me. I did it for Bucky. Because Oscar would never stop hunting Bucky and I made a promise to protect him from them.

"Bucky!" I shouted, just in case he was still nearby. "BUCKY!" I screamed.

I could hear my voice echo through the street, but it was drowned out by sirens and the rumble of a motorcycle engine. He wouldn't be able to hear me. And he couldn't come back even if he did. I didn't want him to see me like that. He'd made the choice not to end Oscar's life and I did.

So I dropped to the ground and pressed my head against my knees. I wanted to vomit, but I had to regain control. We'd talked about it before. We knew they'd come back for him I just didn't want it to end so quickly. I didn't want all that work to go to waste. And now I'd lost him, and everything else along with him.

"One, two. Three, four," I counted my heartbeats. Over and over. "One, two. Three, four. One, two. Three, four." I didn't stop until the motorcycle shut off and I felt arms wrap around me. Steve lifted me back to my feet, and I stared up into his concerned blue eyes. But I couldn't reach for him for comfort. I couldn't move.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I looked back down at my trembling fingers. Blood was caking to the creases of my palms and caught in my fingernails.

"I didn't freeze this time," I told him.

"Where's Bucky?"

"He's gone. He didn't kill anyone. Not a single person. I did."

"Which way did he go?"

"Backyard."

"I'm going after him."

"It's too late." He moved away from me anyway, and I turned to watch him go.

"Stay right there. Sam is on his way. Don't talk to anyone until he's here," he told me. Then he jumped the fence like it was nothing and left me standing there on the sidewalk.


	34. Chapter 34

Even though the blood was gone, I still felt sick whenever I thought about it. I was sitting at my kitchen table with my fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, but they were still trembling. The liquid burned the cut on my lip and scalded my throat. My sister was sitting at the table in front of me. She had flown down from New York while I was still in Talbot's custody. Tony was on his way from California.

Bucky hadn't come back. No one had seen him. I did what Steve asked and kept my mouth shut, even when Sam arrived. He kept his arm around me as they questioned me, but I stayed silent until Stark's lawyer came. Steve looked for Bucky for as long as he could, and when I was finally allowed back in my house, I almost expected him to be there lurking in the shadows. He never showed up, and he didn't come the next night either.

"I just don't understand why you won't stay at a hotel," Clara was saying as she swept her dark brown hair out of her face and stirred the spoon in her mug. She swore the tea would calm my nerves, but it didn't help. I never expected it to.

My house was destroyed, and there was another death on my hands. No matter what anyone said to try and cheer me up, I could still imagine the blood on the lawn and stained on my floor. The bullet hole on the door frame came from a gun that I shot. The bullet that did it went through someone's throat before embedding itself in the wood. My once safe and comfortable house was now tainted.

"I can't stay at a hotel in case he comes back," I explained as I took another sip of tea and focused on the coffee stained table.

"You can leave him a note. Give him a number to call you at."

"Tony won't let me do that. That will lead HYDRA right to me." She sighed.

"HYDRA already knows exactly where you are. How does it make a difference? Let Tony set up more surveillance thingies. He can tell you if Barnes comes back so you can contact him."

"He won't come back if I'm not here."

"I don't think he's going to come back anyway." I glanced at her. She looked so neat and professional sitting in my modest kitchen. She even had pearls in her earlobes, and there wasn't a single strand of her (usually curly) hair out of place.

"He promised he would find me."

"Let him find you someplace else. And what if they got to him? What if he's with HYDRA again?"

"He'll come back for me." She sighed in agitation and looked away toward the kitchen window. I glanced at the clock and set the mug back down on the table. "I have to get to a meeting with Talbot. You shouldn't be alone here. Just in case."

"You should let me come with you."

"It's at the Triskelion, and you haven't been cleared. So unless you want to wait on the bridge, I'd advise you not to go."

"You should really have your lawyer with you."

"I'm not going to be arrested. My lawyer already did his job. Talbot just wants to scold me for helping Steve without telling him. It'll be fine."

"I wish you weren't going back to that place. They already ruined your life."

"I really don't want to argue with you right now. If I don't go talk to Talbot, he will have me arrested."

"Tony's lawyer would get you out. And Tony could pay your bail."

"Forgive me but I'd rather avoid being arrested at all."

"Fine." She brushed me off but followed after me as I left the kitchen.

My neighborhood used to feel like my sanctuary. It was normal and boring, and I felt safe in all that normal boringness. My neighbors were predictable and never really bothered me. Girl Scouts felt safe enough to walk down the street and sell cookies.

But now the place felt darkened by what I'd done. I brought that darkness into their normal boring lives. There were no kids rushing off to school, no one out jogging or mowing their lawns. Everyone felt the presence of Oscar's death even though they didn't know him. I had brought danger into their lives just by allowing HYDRA into mine. No matter what I did and where I went, that darkness would follow me.

Clara stayed with me until I got to the car. She stood on the sidewalk and crossed her arms over her chest. She already seemed tired and stressed despite looking so perfectly poised and cleaned up so early in the morning. I told her to go back home and let me deal with my problems on my own, but she refused to leave. This ride to speak to Talbot was going to be my first time away from her since I'd been released. I opened the car door and looked at where she was standing.

"You shouldn't stay here by yourself," I reminded her.

"I'm just going to clean up and then Tony should be here. Maybe we'll go get breakfast and wait for you to finish," she told me. "Call me when you're done with Talbot." I gave her a quick nod before sliding into the car.

I hated driving alone. It was when my mind was free to wander, and I had no one to talk to. It didn't matter how high I turned up the music or how much I concentrated on the road. My thoughts always caught up with me. I would have asked Clara to join me if I didn't think she'd annoy me to death. And I also didn't really want her to hear the things I was going to have to tell Talbot about Bucky. She wouldn't understand.

Even though it was so early, it was passed the morning rush hour. When I worked for SHIELD, I was always on my way to work by the time the sun started to rise. DC always seemed to rise earlier than most cities. So while there were still plenty of cars on the road, it was an easy drive. I didn't have to stop very often, and there was enough space for me to pass the black SUV that was being annoyingly slow in front of me. But the car was too goddamn silent, and I could never find a station I liked. So I took my eyes off the road just to switch it over to a disk.

I had my eyes off the road for just a second too long. The car that had been beside me for the past few minutes made a side swipe. My car jerked from the impact, and I returned my eyes to the road long enough to catch a glimpse of the SUV's brake lights, before I swerved and hit the brakes. The car swung to the side and slammed into the guardrail. The airbag burst open, and my head hit the cushion, which caused me to bite my lip back open.

"Miss Hayes, I've detected an impact," JARVIS informed me. But then my door was ripped open, and my seatbelt yanked off, and I was dragged from the vehicle and out onto the open freeway.

The man tossed me down onto the pavement and then pointed a gun at the back of my head. I could feel the metal press against my skull, and I still had to take a moment to wrap my head around what was happening. A whole group of agents was leaving the black SUV, and I probably should have noticed there were too many of them out on the road. I got used to them in DC.

A man was standing in the center of the group. He wasn't dressed like the others. He wore black and leather except for the metal arm that they left exposed. His hair was down and lashing in his face, but his sharp blue eyes were on mine. His expression looked deeply concerned, and I felt my heart shatter in my chest.

"Shoot her," the man behind me instructed. One of them held out a gun, but Bucky made no move for it as he stepped forward. "Shoot her, or I will. You said you were loyal to us. I want you to prove it. Shoot her."

"She hasn't done anything," Bucky argued. The man used the gun to shove my head. I kept my hands up but winced from the feel of it.

"It's not your job to ask questions, Soldier. Shoot her!"

"She's a civilian."

The man hit me on the back of the head and pushed me forward again. Bucky reached for the gun and lifted it in my direction. Only a few yards were separating us, and he had the weapon pointed at my face. I wanted to beg him not to do it, but I could tell that I didn't have to. This man was dressed like the Winter Soldier, but there was too much emotion on his face for him to be anyone but Bucky. I could see life in his bright blue eyes. There was too much fear and discomfort. They were invisible marks that I had left on him.

"Shoot her!" the man shouted. I flinched when Bucky's hands tightened around the gun.

I knew that he didn't want to do it. He didn't want to follow orders anymore, and even if what the man said was true and Bucky swore his loyalties to them, I didn't believe he did it willingly. They obviously hadn't tampered with his memories, and maybe that was all he could do to save himself from that torture. They were going to torture him anyway. He was going to have to shoot me or watch me die. One or the other. Probably both.

All of them had their guns raised on me even though I was unarmed. There was no way I'd be able to get out of it. He could shoot the man behind me, but then the rest of them would open fire, and I'd still die. He could try fighting them, but despite his talents, it would only take one second for one or more of them to pull the trigger. All he could do was buy me time, and I could see on his face that he didn't know how.

He was breathing heavily as he weighed options in his mind, trying to find a solution for us. There had to be a loophole for me to escape through, but I couldn't think of anything, and I didn't know if that was because I'd just been in a car accident or if there just wasn't one. I could see that he'd already come to the same conclusion.

"Bucky," I said softly. He kept his eyes on mine, and his lips were set in a straight line. But his eyes were conflicted. "It's okay," I told him. "Because—it was real. Just—no matter what happens—don't let them take that away from you. Count your heartbeats and you'll know. You're human and even if they take me out of your head, you'll still have that."

"You're pathetic," the man behind me said. "A failure and a traitor." I could hear the gun cock with a metallic click. And then Bucky jerked his arm to the side and fired.

I heard the loud bang and slammed into the man behind me before dropping onto the pavement. My right shoulder had exploded in pain and I screamed as I rolled onto my side. I'd forgotten how sharp and excruciating that pain was. Even in all my nightmares and flashbacks, my memory didn't prepare me to feel that again. The pain was explosive and unexpected. I cried out as I clutched the bleeding hole the bullet had torn through me.

The man stepped over me, and I followed his movements until my eyes landed on Bucky. He still looked pained, but he was watching the man expectantly as he tossed something to the agent beside Bucky.

"The Winter Soldier is compromised. Take him out and finish her off," he said.

But then Bucky sprang into action. He spun around and cracked the man in the face with his metal fist. The agent next to him reached out with whatever he'd been handed and slammed the object into Bucky's neck. He stumbled in my direction, still trying to fight them off. But his face went red, and he fell forward onto his knees. His eyes met mine.

"Run," he said.

I struggled to get back on my feet, but I knew I wouldn't be fast enough. Even if I made it to the car in time, they'd blocked off the area with their fleet of SUV's. The most I could do was lock the door and hope that Tony made the windows bullet resistant.

I got up and limped toward the car, clutching at my bleeding shoulder. I could hear Bucky struggling behind me, but I kept my eyes forward. I wouldn't be able to help him if I was dead, but it took everything I had not to turn back and fight.

"Get him in the car. I'll do it myself," the man said. A bullet zinged by me and struck the car hard enough to crack the glass. I froze. "Turn around."

I did as I was told but looked passed him at where Bucky had fallen unconscious on the pavement. The other agents were trying to get him up so they could drag him back into one of the cars. Then the agent stepped in front of me and blocked him from view. He lifted his gun.

"Agent Hayes," he said with a smile. There was blood dripping from his nose. "We want to thank you, truly, for everything that you've done for us. And thank you for taking care of the asset while we got up and running again. Now we can rebuild him stronger and better than he ever was before. And when we do that, we're going to make him murder every single person that you love. Starting with your sister."

"You've made a terrible mistake," I told him. "Because my car has a crash detector—and it links directly to Iron Man."

He laughed like he didn't believe me, but I saw the flash of red before he did. Bucky had given me just enough time. The red blur flew at him from the side and caught him in the gut, flinging him across the freeway toward the divider. He skidded to a halt and then jumped back on his feet.

Tony's suits were always more impressive up close. I could hear him moving toward me, and then the mask stared down at me. I slumped against the car to the ground.

"Are you alright?" I heard Tony's voice ask through a digital transmitter.

"Been better," I admitted.

A bullet struck the side of his helmet, and he immediately turned and flew off toward the attacker. The black SUV they'd stuck Bucky in was already speeding down the freeway. Cars were lining up behind the blockage, and I knew Steve wouldn't be able to get through it. I wouldn't be able to drive fast enough to catch up with Bucky. My head was already starting to spin. I just had to hope that Steve could get through.

I finally managed to work up the strength to get back on my feet. Tony had the agent by the ankle and was holding him over the edge of the overpass. The man was screaming, and he'd dropped his gun at Tony's feet. I limped over to them.

"Tony!" I shouted. The mask turned in my direction. "Leave me with the gun. Go after Bucky," I insisted.

"I can't do that, Jo," he said.

"Please?" I begged. I reached for the gun the agent had dropped. "For me?" He turned and dumped the man on the road at my feet.

"I'm doing it because they're HYDRA. Not for you," he said.

Then he flew off down the road after the car. I held the gun up with my left hand. I was trembling, but the agent didn't know about my inability to pull a trigger. At least I hoped he didn't. Either way, he must have known I'd killed Oscar.

"He won't catch them," he told me as he sat up on his knees and gazed up at me like a guilty dog. "You'll never get him back. It's too late for him, Agent Hayes. It's too late for you. Because when we rebuild him—we're going to send him to you. And you won't be able to save him this time. We'll make sure of it." I responded by cocking the gun. "You can't shoot me. You're bleeding out. You don't have the upper body strength."

"You really want to test me?" I asked, stepping forward and pressing the barrel of the gun against his forehead. "You know that's the last thing Oscar Harman said to me too, right? He said I couldn't do it, and look where that got him. Bullet right through the jugular. You do not want to test me because I am really tired and really PISSED OFF!"

"What were your last words to James Barnes before he shot you, Hayes? Words don't mean anything. He'll forget you. And then we'll send him to kill all your friends one by one. We'll make you watch."

I could feel the blood draining from my body. The wound wasn't fatal, but the bleeding wasn't slowing. My head was getting fuzzier, and I was having a hard time holding the gun up. I just wanted to stay conscious long enough for Tony to get back or for Steve to find me. But the pain was unbearable, and I could already see black dots dancing in my vision.

"You already tried that," I said as I struggled to breathe through the pain. "You couldn't kill my friends. And do you hear that?" The freeway below us was noisy with passing cars and trucks, cars were honking to be let through the buildup, but beneath all that I could make out the rumble of a motorcycle engine and I knew that sound better than anyone. I didn't have any idea where it was coming from, but I knew it was getting closer. "That," I told him, "is my upper body strength."

I stumbled backward and dropped the gun on the cement. I couldn't hold it anymore, but the sound of that rumbling was almost deafening now. He jerked for the weapon and had his fingers wrapped around the handle when a shield spun passed me and struck him right in the face. He hit the guardrail and was out cold. The shield slid across the road before coming to a stop. When I turned around, Steve was standing on the trunk of my car.

"Are you okay?" he asked me, jumping down on the road. His face was stern and focused. I shook my head.

"Tony went after him." I motioned down the road. "He shot me." Then I dropped to the ground and rested my head against the rail. I pinched my eyes shut and pressed my palm against the wound.

* * *

I'm sorry.


	35. Chapter 35

The window in my room was too bright for me to sleep. Clara said I needed to get as much sleep as I could, but I was used to having trees block my window. I missed the shadows and the lumpy mattress. But I couldn't see any trees from my floor. Just a clear blue sky and the city beyond. I couldn't sleep.

At least Clara had taken the hint and stopped trying to talk to me. I was still groggy from surgery, and I didn't want to speak at all, let alone talk about Bucky. Though we still differed in opinion, she was avoiding the, "I told you so," that I knew she wanted to say. I could still hear it in every word that she spoke to me.

She told me that taking Steve's mission was dangerous and getting involved with Bucky was dangerous. I should have just stood back and done what I was told. I should have insisted that he talked to Steve and stayed out of their business. But I still believed I'd done something right. Even if it hadn't lasted very long and they were likely going to take all his memories again. I just had to hope that I made something stick.

The few agents that were captured wouldn't tell us anything. Tony hadn't been able to catch up to the SUV before he lost it. Or at least that's what he said to me. They interrogated the agent who wanted to shoot me, but they got nothing. He broke a capsule in his mouth and died before getting a word out. The survivors of Bucky's rampage wouldn't say anything either.

Steve promised to keep looking for Bucky, but every minute that passed felt grimmer than the one before. I knew all hope was lost when I heard a tap on the door and his voice.

"Can I come in?" Steve asked.

"Sure, of course," Clara replied. She hopped out of her chair and went to greet him. I hated that she was so sweet to him still so cold toward Bucky. I didn't blame Steve for getting me involved, but he was more responsible for it than Bucky was. Yet she acted like Bucky was entirely at fault and Steve was a saint.

I kept my eyes on the window because I didn't want to talk to him unless he had good news. I could tell the news wasn't good just by the stance of his shoulders at the corner of my eye.

"She's not really up for company," Clara informed him. "But I'm sure it's important. I should warn you that she's still a little loopy from surgery. She uh—has no verbal filter. She's kind of mean actually." I heard another voice then that sounded like a soft laugh. It was Sam.

Steve appeared around the side of my bed and took a seat on the chair under the window. I couldn't ignore him if I tried. He gave me a smile, and I stared back at him emotionless.

"How are you doing?" he asked as he placed a laptop on his lap.

"I've been better," I told him.

"I have some news for you."

"I don't want to hear it unless it's good." He took a deep breath and sighed.

"You told me to keep you updated, and Sam and I have been trying to follow his trail."

"I know."

"We thought it might be best if you went back to Malibu with Stark and your sister—for the time being." I tried to sit up and winced from the pain. My right arm was stuck in a sling and pretty much useless. The bullet had shattered my bone, and the pain hurt much worse than the first time around.

"I can't go to Malibu," I insisted. "I have to find Bucky. No offense, Steve, but I'm the only one who's going to be able to get through to him when we find him."

"No offense, Jo," Sam said as he leaned against the foot of my bed and I focused on him. "But you're not going to be able to do much of anything. Not while Barnes is with HYDRA and they've got you on their list."

"I can still stay here. I can still help."

"You can't even move your arm," Clara said from my other side. "There's nothing you're going to be able to do here. There's no place safer for you than with us."

"What happens when you find him, and I'm not here to help you?" I asked Steve. My voice cracked, and I didn't know if I'd be able to fight the urge to cry this time. "You're going to try and get through to him on your own?"

"Barnes isn't coming back, Jo," Sam told me. "No matter what you think you can do."

"You don't know that! You said that HYDRA's higher ups have been taken down. The guys who got into my house were amateurs. They were HYDRA cockroaches. They have no idea what they're doing. And their facilities have all been destroyed!"

"Some of them," Steve said. "And that's just in the US, Jo. We still have tons of information to sift through before we even begin to scratch the surface of what HYDRA has done and what they've gotten their hands in. And uh—we got ahold of some security footage from what we thought was an abandoned facility." I cut my eyes to him again and then looked down at the laptop he brought. I should have known he had it for a reason.

"How?" I asked.

"They emailed it to us. Me and you. I went on your computer when you were in surgery. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, but I needed to know if you'd gotten it too."

"Please don't?" I begged him.

He stood up anyway and placed the laptop down on my legs. He opened the lid, and it instantly came to life on a black video screen. He tapped the play button, and I pinched my eyes shut and took a deep breath. I didn't want to see it, but I knew he was showing me for a reason, and he wasn't going to let me get away with hiding from it.

The video started in what appeared to be a lab. It was in black and white, and the screen and sound were fuzzy. I could make out Bucky as he thrashed around the room, knocking things over and throwing punches at whoever got close to him. They were trying to subdue him, but he was still chaotic and violent, and no one could get close.

"I don't want to watch this," I told Steve.

"You have to," he told me.

"Where is she?" Bucky growled. I wanted to pinch my eyes shut again, but even if I did, I would never forget the sound of his voice. It was so full of rage and pain. A deep throaty growl that was more painful to hear than seeing him thrash around the room.

"She's dead," someone shouted. "She's dead!" The other man appeared on the lower corner of the screen with his hands up. "She's gone!" Bucky stumbled back toward the chair at the center of the screen.

"He said I didn't have to kill her. I just had to shoot her. I did what I was told. I shot her. I did what you wanted."

"I know. You did the best you could."

"You killed her." His voice had gone so quiet I almost couldn't hear it. He stood back up and tightened his fists as he prepared to start swinging again.

"I didn't kill her. I didn't have anything to do with it," the man said, hurrying to lift his hands again and appear less hostile. "It was Erikson. He gave the order. He saw it through. He did what he had to do to protect you. To protect all of us. I know they made you believe that we were wrong, but they were lying to you."

"She's gone."

"Yes."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I got the report back from Erikson after we left. She got hit point blank. No vitals."

He turned away, and I could see him breathing as the other people moved around the room, trying to fix the mess that he had made in his rampage. He stood there for a long moment as the man waved orders at the others behind Bucky's back. Then after a pause, Bucky reached for something off screen and sat down in the chair.

"Just do it," he said. His voice had gone harsh and cold.

He stuck a mouthpiece into his mouth, and the man jumped forward to strap him in before he could change his mind. The machine started up, and the headpiece moved down over Bucky's head and part of his face. I could see his breathing speed as he anticipated what was about to come. He told me once that it hurt. He said he remembered every time. He gripped his fingers on the arms of the chair and prepared himself. I reached out and shut the laptop before I had to see it.

"Why did you show me this?" I asked. There was a heaviness in my chest, and I didn't think I'd win the battle against tears this time.

"HYDRA wanted you to see it," Steve told me. I pinched my mouth shut and looked at the wall. I was angry at him for making me watch it, even though it wasn't his fault. "And I wanted you to understand."

"He shot me to buy me time."

"I know."

"They told him I was dead—so that he would be more compliant. He allowed them to do that to him—because of me."

"Because he thought he had nothing to come back to."

"He actually believed them."

"You have to understand the control they have over him, Jo. It's going to take time for him to be free from the urge to trust them."

I breathed through the tightness in my chest. I felt the tears swell up in my eyes even though I was trying to hold them back. I didn't want anyone to see me cry, least of all Captain America. I didn't want him to mistake my tears for weakness. I felt my sister pat my leg, but I moved out of her way. I reached up and wiped the moisture from my eyes before it could drip down my face.

"Was there any way to trace the video?" I finally asked. Steve nodded.

"Stark was able to locate the facility. An abandoned bank vault. It's been sealed off but they'd already vacated by the time we found it."

"What about the equipment? They wouldn't have been able to transport a cryogenic chamber on short notice." Steve shrugged.

"We don't know what they have access to. HYDRA was using SHIELD, but they weren't SHIELD. Romanoff dumped SHIELD files onto the internet. Most of HYDRA's secrets are still locked."

"Do you think they're going to put him back under? Or that he's still out there?"

"I'm going to do whatever I can to find him regardless. And even if they don't put him back on ice—they can still get into his head."

"He told me that he would start to remember things every time he was out of cryo for too long. He said that's what happened with you. His mind was already starting to slip when you got to him. You just accelerated it."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

"Why did you really show me this video, Steve?" I looked at him again, and he gave me a sympathetic expression. I couldn't hide my tears anymore, but he didn't look at me like he thought I was weak. He looked like he understood. And I felt like an ass for not believe that he would.

"Because I think you should go to Malibu with your sister. At least long enough to get back on your feet. Let us do the dirty work until you're ready. I can take care of your house if that's what you're worried about."

"I don't care about the stupid house," I admitted. "Just the goddamn raccoon." I sniffed. "Do you think he won't remember me?"

"No, he won't. And that's why I think you should go. If he doesn't remember you and he kills you—what's that going to do to him when he snaps out of it again? There'd be no hope of getting him back after that."

"How long am I supposed to stay in Malibu? Until I can use my arm again? Until I'm—mentally stable?"

"However long you need to recover, Jo," he said. His tone was gentle but cautious. He was afraid of hurting my feelings by telling me that he didn't want me there, getting in the way.

"But I can do this," I insisted. "I'm strong enough. Despite what everyone thinks."

"It's not that I don't believe you're strong enough to handle this. And even if I didn't, Bucky is still stronger than you. Right now HYDRA has their sights on you. I'm not asking you to go because I think you're not strong enough. I'm asking you to go because Bucky wouldn't think twice about killing you. I want to put as much space between the two of you to make him think twice. At least until you're better."

"You want me to leave because I'm too—human?" He winced like I'd insulted him. I didn't mean to hurt his feelings by implying that he wasn't human, but I couldn't find the words to take it back. Steve was stronger. His strength matched Bucky's, and he had more friends and resources than I did. He nodded anyway.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Because you're too human. And I think Stark can keep you safe. I promise you that I'll do whatever I can to get Bucky back. But I can't risk him getting to you first. Not if he views you as a threat. And believe me, Jo, they will make him see you that way."

"You know it won't matter where you send me. He's going to find me." He nodded and stood to his feet. He collected his laptop and then turned to leave.

"I'm sorry, Jo," he said, patting my foot at the end of the bed. He gave Clara a nod and left the room. She followed after him. Sam stayed behind as he leaned against the end of my bed. I didn't want to look at him, and he didn't say anything until Clara and Steve disappeared out of the door.

"I have something for you. I know it's not the same but—I figured you could add some extra sparkle to it," he said. He stood up and pulled something out of his back pocket. Then he set it down on my lap, and I reached out to pick up the pink switchblade. It didn't have the bedazzled jewels on it like Clara's knife, but I appreciated it anyway.

"Remember what we talked about," he whispered so that Steve and Clara couldn't hear in the hallway. "You don't have to carry a gun to be a hero. Whatever it is you decide to do—all you have to do is call." I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of the knife and looked up at him.

"You said I couldn't get him back," I reminded him. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You won't get him back from this. Running. Fighting. That's always going to be part of him. Just like it's always going to be part of Steve. You won't save him from it. But if anyone can get through to him, it's you. You just have to find a way to make it work, because I don't think this lifestyle is meant for you either."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Like I said, find your Project Falcon. Even if it's in Malibu. Even if it's something you thought you had to run away from." I nodded slowly.

"Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome. And I'll be waiting for that phone call. By the way, I heard about that name they used to call you. Something about Knives?" He smiled and patted my foot like Steve had.


	36. Finale

I'd never visited the West Coast before going to live in Malibu. Tony offered to take my family and me to Disneyland once just because he found out we'd never been, but we didn't accept. Mostly because we suspected it was a ruse to get Clara to stay with him in California instead of spending all her time in New York. I also don't think he was accustomed to how humble my family was

Even though I grew up in Ohio, Washington DC was my home. I lived there for almost half a decade. And that didn't seem like much in the span of my life, but it's where my memories were the sharpest, even if they weren't the fondest.

When Tony's private jet landed in California, I was exposed to a dry heat that I wasn't used to, and I didn't like it. I sat in the back of the car with his air conditioner on full blast as I hid in my hooded sweatshirt. Tony lived by the ocean in a more tropical area. The heat went from dry to humid in half an hour. It was sweltering hot in the sun and freezing cold in the shade. I'd never get used to it.

His house was as lavish as could be expected. His last house had been blown up, and he had no trouble going out and buying a new one, just higher up on a cliff and with more windows than any house needed. It was always bright, always cold on the inside, and too hot on the outside. There were too many rooms and Tony spent most of his time in his basement talking to his robots, while my sister hid away upstairs in her office working.

Tony gave me a job that I could do from home, so I never had to leave. It felt too simple to be a real job. He gave me more money than I deserved and said he'd get me in something better once I was on my feet. I saved the money so that I had something to fall back on when I inevitably went back home because I had no plans to go back to New York with them. My sister, however, kept making excuses for why I couldn't leave yet because she was sure I was going to be brutally murdered by a super-assassin if she let me out of her sight for too long.

During the late afternoons, I would take my laptop out onto the back deck that overlooked the ocean. I would hide in the cool shade for as long as I could handle. I liked it better out there. I felt less cooped up by the ocean. And Clara and Tony were getting ready to leave for some event, and I could hear them bickering at each other.

She seemed to think that I wasn't recovering because I sat around the house all day and didn't bother to get dressed in normal clothes most of the time. She thought that working on my laptop was putting too much strain on my arm and actually suggested I lie around and do nothing. If I didn't work, then I would think, and I hated thinking more than I hated working.

Even though there weren't any more staples in my shoulder and I didn't have to wear a sling, it still hurt constantly since most of the bone had been replaced or plated. The scar that was forming on the new wound was weirdly different from the other one. It was red and painful, and the bullet and surgery scars left clear lines, instead of the odd spiderwebs like the other.

Whenever conversations with Clara turned on my healing shoulder, she liked to remind me of the person who'd put the scars there. He was the reason my arm was so difficult to move without pain and also the reason I sat outside all day with nothing but my thoughts and a ridiculously simple job.

It didn't matter how many times I tried to tell her that Bucky shot me in an attempt to buy me time and save my life. It didn't matter to her that he was a perfect shot and had changed his target at the very last second. It didn't matter to her that his plan worked, and he bought me just enough time for Tony to reach me. She still wasn't convinced that he hadn't done it out of malevolence.

The screen door beside me was open, and I could hear Clara clicking around in her heels and arguing with Tony. They had some special event planned that she didn't want to attend, but Tony insisted that she had to be there. Since her job was to lead the team that represented his company and make sure he didn't say anything stupid.

"I don't need keys!" Tony was arguing as he followed her around the house. "It's activated by my fingerprint. If you kept the car I got you for your birthday, you would have known that."

"Well, that's just stupid," she decided. "I could just cut your finger off and steal the car."

"It has a heat sensor. JARVIS would know if you chopped off my finger. It would self-destruct."

"Should we test it?"

I listened to this for a few more minutes before Tony went off in search of his tie and Clara appeared at the door. She pushed the screen open and stepped out onto the deck to look down at me. She was wearing a simple black dress that probably cost more than my computer. Her hair was tied up all neat and professional, but she looked beautiful like always. I probably looked awful outside in my yoga pants and my tangled hair.

"We're about to leave. Are you sure you don't want to come?" she asked as she put a hand on the glass railing to balance herself and adjust her strappy shoes. I snorted.

"I wouldn't even go to the mailbox looking like this," I reminded her.

"We can make a pit-stop at a salon. Or I could always just chop Tony's finger off and come back for you when you're done getting ready."

"I don't really feel like going anywhere."

"I know. I was just hoping that my attempt at a joke might change your mind. Or maybe just the thought of Tony missing a finger." I laughed shortly.

"It's tempting, but I wouldn't want you to blow up." She waved the idea away and looked out over the ocean.

"He's just bluffing. And if he isn't—then I bet you he's telling JARVIS to disable that function right now. Just in case he thinks I'm serious." I shook my head and smiled.

"I'll pass. Tony can keep his finger for another day."

"I guess I'll have to find another reason then. Well, call me if you need anything."

"I will."

"I'll see you later."

She waved goodbye and then slipped back into the house. She shut the screen behind her so that I could hear her bicker with Tony a few more times before the front door shut and the house fell silent. Even being on the opposite side of the house and so close to the ocean, I could hear the sound Tony's car engine roar to life. I waited to hear it zoom down the driveway before I decided to get up.

Since the sun was setting, it was getting too hot out there. My laptop battery was going to die soon so I stood up and stretched. I'd seen too many sunsets since coming to Malibu. Steve said he wanted me to join his search for Bucky as soon as my doctor gave me the okay. The only problem is that my doctor wouldn't. Physical therapy was taking much longer this time around. But then again, the last time I hadn't shattered a bone.

I knew that my presence was kind of putting a strain on Tony and Clara. Clara's home was in New York, but she stayed in Malibu for me. And I think it bothered Tony that she was only staying for me, even though he liked having her around all the time. Though I didn't think he cared to see me parked out on his deck every afternoon.

I decided that another sunset over the ocean wasn't a good enough reason to let my battery die. So I collected my laptop and returned to the house where the air conditioner was. The computer's charger was plugged into the power station in the center of the coffee table even though Tony hated my "dinosaur" machine and offered to get me a new one. I sat down on the couch and plugged it in, just in time to save it from shutting off.

"Hey, JARVIS?" I asked out loud.

"Yes, Miss Hayes?" the disembodied voice answered.

"Could you turn the AC back on?"

"The air conditioning unit has been pre-set to a comfortable sixty-two degrees. Would you like me to change it?"

"No, that's fine. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss Hayes."

"Is there any more water in the fridge?"

"The upstairs refrigerator was stocked just yesterday," he told me.

"Thanks, buddy."

"You're welcome, Miss Hayes."

At first, I hated the idea of JARVIS being in the house with me all the time. I knew he'd monitored my house in DC and the car I borrowed. But I never spoke to him enough to hear the sometimes unusually human remarks he made. In Malibu, he acted as my alarm clock and personal assistant. Tony always got irritated at him because he would interrupt our conversation to remind me of things.

He was surprisingly useful. I never had to get up to see if there was something in the fridge because he monitored everything with a barcode, tank, or electronic connection. I never had to turn the AC on myself. And he woke me every morning by unblocking my windows and saying, "Good morning, Miss Hayes," in his pleasant little robot voice.

But he didn't like when I called him a robot.

I gave Tony a lot of heat for it in the beginning, but I actually liked JARVIS and even though he was only programmed to do Tony's bidding and not develop emotional attachments, I think he liked me too. Sometimes he went out of his weird little robot way to help me, even when Tony told him to stop. Plus, it was nice to have someone to talk to who wouldn't judge you. Even if it was just because they were programmed not to.

I walked to the kitchen to get something to drink. It was a surprisingly long walk from the couch to the kitchen. The place was stocked with stainless steel appliances and everything anyone could ever need or want in a home kitchen. Or a restaurant kitchen for that matter.

I wrapped my hand around the handle to pull the fridge open, but the light didn't turn on. I reached up and pressed the button at the top that toggled it, but it still didn't come back on. And it wasn't making that faint humming sound either.

"Uh—JARVIS?" I asked, but his voice didn't respond. I shut the fridge and listened to the quiet house. All I could hear was the roar of the ocean. Even the AC was quiet. And then my spine went cold.

Tony's house was never supposed to go without power. He always paid his bills and had generators and backup generators. He even had backups for his backups. Tony's house was built so that even if the power did somehow go out, the energy stored from solar panels would keep the place running for a while.

The only way the power could have gone off is if someone shut it off intentionally. JARVIS was usually supposed to overwrite that action unless Tony explicitly told him to. And if JARVIS wasn't getting it back on, it meant a line was cut somewhere. And JARVIS would alert Tony from his car or his phone, and I knew he always had a suit handy, and he hadn't been gone for very long.

I swiveled around and just as I expected, a figure was standing by the back door. He was dressed in his full suit. Even his eyes and mouth were covered now. The only part of him left exposed was his metal arm, which was clenched in a fist at his side.

I told myself that if I saw Bucky again I wouldn't be afraid, and I wouldn't run. But I also didn't know what kind of frame of mind he was in. I couldn't connect to him through the mask. He wasn't MY Bucky as he stood there still and silent. My heart was pounding in my chest as I took a cautious step forward.

"Bucky?" I said.

He had a weapon of some sort clutched in his right hand. He lifted it in my direction, and I jumped behind the island counter to block myself. The weapon didn't fire, and I crouched behind the counter, clutching at my pounding heart.

He appeared around the other side and lifted the weapon again. I bolted out from my cover and made a run for the front door. I didn't know where the hell I would go, but it seemed like the right move to make at the time. The weapon fired with a click and a swish. A wire shot around my ankle and knocked me onto the floor. He yanked me toward him, sliding me across the smooth floor.

"Bucky, please?" I shouted as I put my hands up. He paused and stood over me. "It's me," I pleaded. "It's Jo. Please tell me you remember. You know me. You don't have to do this. I can help you."

I hoped that my plea was getting through to him, but he only paused for a second before slamming his cybernetic hand against my throat. My breath caught in a strangled gag, and I struggled uselessly to get his hand off of me. I kicked my feet, I hit his arms. Nothing was working. My instinct was to scratch him, and I reached for his face, dug my fingers in, and ripped the mask away. His eyes were dark and focused as if he wasn't seeing me at all, let alone recognizing me.

"Let her go," a voice said, and I heard the now familiar sound of Tony's suit powering up as he prepared to fire.

A bright light shot out from the center of his palm and hit Bucky in the chest. He went flying into the kitchen and crashed into the table. But he was back on his feet in an instant and came barreling toward Tony. I was still struggling to catch my breath as they waged war against each other. Tony threw Bucky toward the sliding glass door and lifted his hand to fire again.

Then I jumped up in between them.

"Tony!" I gasped, putting my hands up. "Stop—don't hurt him." Both men froze still. The iron mask stared at me, and even though Tony's face wasn't visible I could sense his disbelief.

"He tried to kill you," he pointed out.

"He wasn't trying to kill me. HYDRA was. Bucky was just the weapon, and if he wanted to kill me, I'd be dead. He could have crushed my throat or shot me and left."

"Stop making excuses for him, Jo! He's HYDRA's attack dog!"

"Exactly! He's innocent!"

"He's beyond saving. The sooner you realize that, the better for all of us."

"Just let me—talk to him. Please?"

"He's not going to let you talk. He came here to kill you. Probably Clara and me too. Is that…"

Tony had one suit that acted without his instructions. It was set to protect him if he was under stress. I had never seen it in action, but I heard about it when he fought with the Mandarin and sent a whole fleet of them to help him.

I heard the same familiar sound as a suit prepared to fire. We both turned to look at where it stood in the hall with its arm raised and prepped for an attack.

"No, no, no, no!" Tony shouted, but it was too late. The suit was aiming for Bucky, and I was standing right in front of him.

Bucky swiveled, blocking me from the blast. It hit him in the space between his shoulder blades and sent the both of us crashing through the screen door and out onto the deck. I heard the glass shatter and the next thing I knew, there was nothing beneath my feet but air and open water.

"Tony!" I screamed as I scrambled for the broken railing. I was lying on the screen, and it was sliding off the deck.

Broken glass pressed into my skin as I tried to grasp what was left of the railing to hold myself up. The movement caused my shoulder to explode with pain. The glass snapped under my skin, and I lost my grip and dropped. But suddenly I felt metal wrap around my wrist, and his face hovered above mine, stern with determination.

"Tell me what you know," he demanded as I dangled there above the ocean, hanging by nothing but his hand around my wrist.

"What?" I shouted.

"Let her go!" I heard Tony yell from the deck. I knew that if I dropped again, Tony could probably catch me before I hit the water. But I didn't like my odds or my painful position. My wrist was dripping blood from where the glass had broken through skin, and my shoulder was taking up all of my weight.

"Tell me what you know about me. You called me by a name," Bucky repeated. My heart was slamming against my ribcage, and there was too much strain on my shoulder. I could barely think, let alone answer, but I had to try.

"I-I-Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. I called you Bucky. That's your nickname. You're from Brooklyn, New York. Your best friend was Steve Rogers. You fought together. In the war. Against HYDRA."

"Tell me something only you would know!" he said, shaking me and making me shriek as my legs swung freely through the air.

"Okay! Okay! I know—I know about your fall from the train! You told me you remembered lying in the snow! Bleeding! Screaming for help! Half of your arm was severed!"

"Something about you!"

"I'm trying!" I screamed. "You told me that no one else knew you remembered it! You said that when they came for you, you thought it was Steve, and that was the last moment you remembered being happy before you met me! You told me this the night before HYDRA came for you! You said what happened between us was real! You listened to my heartbeat, and you said it was real!"

Before I could register what he was doing next, he yanked me back onto the deck, practically launching me toward the broken back door. I slid across chunks of glass and clutched at my aching shoulder. Bucky stood back on his feet and stomped toward me, crunching glass beneath his boots. I looked up at him as he approached.

"Why did you block me?" he asked. I wrapped my hand around the cut on my wrist. Blood oozed out from between my fingers.

"I didn't want him to hurt you," I admitted.

"You care about me."

"Yes."

"Why does HYDRA want you alive?" He stepped toward me, and I heard Tony's suit nearby as he prepared to defend me again. He stayed quiet so that I could get the conversation I'd asked for, but I had no doubt he would launch Bucky right into the sea if he went after me again.

"Because I was important to you once? Because the last time you got free I helped you regain your sense of self. I helped you remember."

"No," he said as he stepped closer. He was just above me now. The sun was setting behind him, and the light was bright so that I couldn't make out most of his features. "They want you for something else. Something big. They called you 'The Vessel."

"I have no idea about any of that."

"You said you were important to me," he asked.

I shifted and tried to get back on my feet so I could face him. He was taller than me, but I could see his eyes more clearly when I stood. Even with the sun behind him. I reached for his right hand, and he flinched but allowed me to take it. I lifted it and pressed it against my chest where my heart was still pounding.

"You told me that—being with me made you feel comfortable enough to remember yourself," I explained. "And that night when you told me how you fell from the train, you put your hand on my heart and said it was how you knew it was real. That was the first and last night that we spent together, but you kept your hand on my heart most of the night. And it was the last thing you did before you left and they took you again. You promised you would find me again. You said you would do everything you could to get this back."

He looked away as if I'd said something that made sense. He kept his hand over my heart, and I wanted to reach out and hold him again. Gentleness seemed to work for him before, but when I lifted my arm, he jerked away from me and snarled as he returned to the house to pass Tony.

"Bucky, don't go," I said as I followed after him. He headed for the front door and stopped in the foyer. Then he turned to look back at me. His eyes were still cold and dark, but there was something human in them that I hadn't seen earlier.

"HYDRA wants you for something," he told me. "If I were you—I would get ready to face them." I shook my head.

"I don't know what they want me for."

"You said I made you a promise."

"Yes, you did."

"Then I'll keep it." He turned back toward the door. "I just want to find out why." He yanked the door open and slammed it behind himself.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. My heart was still thumping wildly in my chest, and my mind was whirring. I wasn't entirely sure what Bucky meant by finding out why. I just hoped that he was asking questions. Maybe that's why he'd been so quick to save my life. Maybe that's why my cheesy speech seemed to get through to him.

That was the thing about the human brain. You can mess with it all you wanted, but it would always persevere.

I walked to the couch and leaned against it. I was bleeding and bruised and aching all over, but I felt alive again. And I think that's what Sam meant when he said some of us just weren't cut out for the normal life. This is what he meant when he said I couldn't save Bucky. I couldn't take him away from a life of fighting and running. Just like I couldn't be taken from that kind of life.

I just wanted to live again. I didn't want to hide out on a couch all day and work on my laptop and never put any regular clothes on. I didn't want to sit at a desk or wait tables. There was no life in boring and normal. Not for me.

"You're bleeding all over my sofa," Tony pointed out, breaking me from my thoughts. I looked down at the cut on my arm.

"It's your fault for buying a house with glass railings," I remarked.

"I see the flaw in that now."

"Will you give me a lift?"

"Where? I kind of left your sister stranded on the side of the road." I pushed away from the couch and wrapped the sleeve of my shirt around the wound.

"Just to the hospital so I can get this stitched. I can't do it one-handed."

"Good idea. I was afraid you were going to say something stupid. Like you wanted to go after him." I winced at the new aches and pains as I turned back to face him. He had lifted the mask so I could see his face. I wasn't like Tony. I didn't have a cool suit or a Project Falcon. But I did know someone who did.

"Of course I want to go after him," I told him. "I just have a favor to call in first."

"Are you serious?" I nodded.

"Yes."

"Big job for one person."

"That's why I'm not going to do it alone." I groaned as I shuffled away from him and went to find my phone.

"And they say I'm nuts," he muttered. I found my phone and moved toward the garage. I heard the line connect so I pressed it to my ear and waited for Tony to catch up with me.

"Hello?" the voice responded.

"Sam, hi. It's Jo. I have a favor to ask you." I could hear him smile even through the phone.

"Anything you need," he replied.

...

I know this is like the mother of all cliffhangers, but I made it that way specifically so it would lead into the sequel. So if there had been no sequel at all, I would have undoubtedly left you with a more uplifting final chapter. Lololol.

So I hope you liked it? Um... I want to say a super big thanks to everyone for all of the comments and recommendations. I really was not expecting so many people to like this story. This has made me incredibly happy. I wanted to give you all individual shout outs but then I realized that would be like all of you. So that would take up a great deal of space. I love you all individually anyway. *smoochies*

Thanks again! Love you guys!

*Edit* I also wanted to point out that Bucky being an orphan is from comic-canon. I'm not sure if it's movie canon because Steve and Bucky were both orphans. But in movie canon, Steve's mom didn't die until he was already an adult, and their Bucky page says he's the oldest of multiple siblings. I'm not entirely 100% sure because I didn't get into Captain America until the movies because I just legitimately turned away by all the patriotism and it took me a long time to realize what a precious nerd baby Steve is.

And the sequel is called Hell Bound and it is both up and completed.


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